Our hearts' full pleasure
by Hungrysherlock-wink
Summary: A classic johnlock for a 30 days OTP challenge. Might be fluffy, might be an angst ridden tale that will have you questioning everything you know... I guess you will have to read it to find out. Might be both.
1. Chapter 0

The world's only consulting detective could be cruel. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes his frustration at the stupidity of the people around him would reach a breaking point and he would just lash out. Most people left. Some endured him simply because he served a purpose. There was, however, one person who would always stay. One person who never left the Great Sherlock Holmes.

His Doctor, his John. He couldn't really call him his, though. That was still a little ways down the road. John Watson always stayed. He understood, tolerated and accepted.

There was one person who would never leave the side of Sherlock Holmes. But what the detective couldn't know. Couldn't even dare to hope, was that, John Watson understood, of course. He never tolerated and accepted though, he only loved. Of the first fact Sherlock was aware, never of the second.

John didn't want to lose his friend by asking for too much. So he laboured on, convincing himself that hanging onto some small part of Sherlock was better than losing all of him.

He remained completely and irrevocably convinced of that fact. Until he saw Sherlock's head hit the pavement. Until he saw him fall. The moment he realised he would never see him again. That exact moment was the moment he realised that he should have told him. He spent the next three years regretting that. He also discovered what true regret felt like. A physical, breathing parasite that followed him. Always draining him, never offering reprieve.

And then he came back.

Sherlock was never intentionally cruel to John Watson. He was the one person Sherlock always excused. John was the one who stayed. And Sherlock hoped, against all odds that he always would. He never imagined being the one leaving. So when he was forced to, it nearly broke him. The only thing that kept him hanging on was the thought of the- albeit dim- light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe he could return, maybe John would understand. He waited. He went away and came back. Seeing John broken, nearly snapped Sherlock's gently constructed web of support keeping his mind together. Nearly.

And then the day arrived. Mycroft called, almost three years to the day. It was safe. He knew, after seeing John at the grave, that he would be forgiven. Before that he had not been so sure. There was always the nagging doubt, what if he believed me. What if he thought I was a fake. What if he never forgave me.

For three years John grieved, he was angry. He tried to beg. He did not believe it at first. A deeply buried part of him still didn't. He could not, and felt he never would, understand a world in which Sherlock wasn't. A world in which they weren't breathing the same air. Yes, he cried and raged and bargained and denied. But he never accepted.

He tried to move on, he even married a girl, he loved her, but not like he loved Sherlock. He knew. She didn't, at first. As the months grew and time passed she realised. She realised in the moments he thought she wasn't looking. The moments he stared at a scarf in a way he hadn't even looked at her on their wedding day. She knew. And she left because of it.

He came home one night to an almost engulfing emptiness. He noticed the small things first. Her favourite coffee mug missing- she never drank tea. A picture of them, shining in its absence. He found her side of the closet empty, except for a note: "Sorry I couldn't be him, I would have done anything for you. That was the one thing I couldn't."

Sherlock saw Mary leave, a suitcase in hand. He didn't quite understand why he felt relieved at the sight. He saw John return home. He thought he saw his heart break. Again. Then he felt the guilt clawing through him, reprimanding him for his earlier relief.

John's heart didn't break that night. Somehow he always knew. None other would fit him, only Sherlock. So he never accepted.

Which is why, the day Sherlock Holmes walked through the door of 221B, John finally saw all the pieces fall into place. He had been waiting.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't really know if there is any other way to add one of these A/N things, if there is, forgive me... This story is dedicated to my dear, dear friend who introduced me to fanfic. Sweetie, there aren't words to thank you :D. You know who you are ;)

The story (and challenge) actually begins here. Chapter 0 was just a prequel that started as an introduction, but I couldn't keep it short enough (I never can)... This is day one. Holding hands. I don't know how I got from my original plan to here, but sweetie, I promise, horses ARE coming.

(Disclaimer resembling sentence) I own only my plot, obviously. The title is from a poem by Oscar Wilde: "My Voice"

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**Chapter 1**

Through the years of regret, John had promised himself one thing. If he was right, if Sherlock was alive, he would tell him. If he ever had the chance to look into those stormy grey eyes again, he would tell him. You don't get a second chance often. If he got one, he would make sure those four words, the four words that had been consuming him from the moment he saw Sherlock's panic at that pool, were the first thing he said.

I love you, Sherlock. That was the first thought in his mind when he saw him step through the door. Not the first thing he said however.

After Mary left, John returned to 221B. He figured when Sherlock returned, the flat should be ready. The day John saw the door open, saw the tall, lanky detective stepping through; the flat was in fact ready. John wasn't. He always thought he knew Sherlock would return. He didn't though. He saw Sherlock. And then he didn't. His vision grew black around the edges, and the last thing he saw before he was completely swallowed, were those eyes.

When he woke up-on the couch-, Sherlock was standing next to him. He wanted to tell him then, but he felt unexpectedly angry. So he just listened as Sherlock explained. He listened to the voice that had haunted him for three years, telling him that everything Sherlock did was to protect him. Telling him how broken Sherlock felt without him. And he couldn't say it. He tried to, but his voice didn't seem to work.

He wanted to reach out and grab his hand. Wanted to run his fingers through those rich brown curls. Wanted to run his fingers over the smooth marble skin that seemed to be luminous. Instead, he just said: "oh". Oh. Oh. Oh. He couldn't believe that was all he said. He was bitterly disappointed in himself. He thought he was ready. He had played this scenario over in his mind a thousand times. Never had it ended with him saying oh. Which is why he was now completely baffled.

He looked at Sherlock. He looked exactly the same. It was this fact, more than anything, that infuriated John. How dare he come back here, saying he was sorry, looking like he had never left. More than anything, John wanted him to show some sign that he was gone. Some small token that showed he didn't imagine the last three years. Something that showed John that Sherlock grieved too. Anything.

The next thing John did wasn't entirely thought through. He got up, looked Sherlock straight in the eyes and punched him. As hard as he possibly could. Sherlock made no move to defend himself. John wanted to apologise then. He wanted to say it now. I love you, Sherlock. The words echoed within him. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't lose him again. So he didn't. He just stood there, until a few minutes, or hours- he couldn't really tell-, later, he felt the tears running down his cheeks. His legs suddenly felt very weak, so he sat down on the floor. To his surprise Sherlock carefully positioned himself next to John.

Through the sobs John was very concious of the fact that their shoulders were almost touching. Almost. He had never felt any distance larger than the distance that separated them at that moment.

He sobbed for what felt like hours. He cried until he didn't feel like he had any tears left at all. When his tears dried up he just stared at Sherlock. He couldn't place the emotion on Sherlock's face. He looked, almost... pained. His eye was swollen where John had hit him.

Again, John acted without thinking. As if by its own accord, John saw himself raising his hand and lightly brushing Sherlock's already blackening eye. They both froze. John saw surprise flit over Sherlock's face. And a moment later, felt the emotion flashing across his own face, when Sherlock reached up, and laced his fingers with John's.

John didn't tell Sherlock what he wanted to, not that day, because that day, they didn't need words. John knew, the moment he felt Sherlock's careful, thin, violinist's fingers lace through his own rough, callous ones. They didn't need words.

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Thank you, again, for all the help, my dear friend. Again sweetie, you know who you are.

I would appreciate ANY reviews. You would make my entire year. It could just be a monosyllabic review, like, "cool" or "nice". I would be VERY, VERY happy.

Thank you for the follow and review ObservationofTrifles :D


	3. Chapter 2

**_Hi everyone. I can't thank you enough for following, reviewing, reading and favourating (not strictly a word, I think). Today's chapeter is a bit longer than usual. Hope you will still like it though._**

**_This is day two, cuddling somewhere. _**

**_As always, for you, Rainy :D_**

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**_ C_****hapter 2**

After Sherlock had taken John's hand things went on pretty normally. They didn't really mention it again.

After a while, John had fallen asleep on the floor, next to Sherlock. Holding his hand. His head gently rolled back against the couch. After a while Sherlock gently untangled his hand and quietly stood up.

He called Lestrade and Mycroft, he went to Mrs Hudson. He tried to do everything that had to be done. Usually John did things like this, but he couldn't let him. Not anymore. He had been protecting him for three years; he couldn't just stop overnight.

So he got everything in order, but not before he had gently placed a pillow behind John's head and draped a blanket over his curled up frame.

A few weeks later everything was almost back to normal. Almost. Everyone that mattered had been informed about the situation. The press were being dealt with. Everything was handled.

Not everything though. John and Sherlock were very careful not to mention that first evening. John avoided mentioning it because he was scared of tainting that memory with denial. Sherlock, because he was scared of what he was feeling. This was brand new. He never had the urge to take another human's hand. Ever. Until John. Sherlock was not used to things being new, for his entire life, up until John, things had been predictable. He was reluctant to let that go, he couldn't let that go for John. He wasn't gay. He made sure everyone knew that. He had said it forty two times. Sherlock, in his own little masochistic game, counted. He made very sure everybody that assumed something about the two of them was set straight. Immediately.

So a few weeks later they were solving cases. Things were, honestly, not exactly normal. They weren't the same people any more and they were abnormally careful of one another. Sherlock had never been careful around John. But he had never come so close to thinking John might walk away either. So they walked on eggshells, saying "please" and "thank you". Asking to be excused. And being very uncharacteristically polite.

John hadn't expected this. Of all the thousands of emotions Sherlock had made him feel. Awkward had never been one. Until now.

This did not last long. Because very soon, sherlock succeeded in making John very, very angry.

They were, out of pure desperation and boredom and a need to escape the stiff atmosphere of 221B, doing a case for Mycroft. Mycroft had begged Sherlock to be careful. It wasn't a dangerous case, but a lot of very important people were involved and it had to be handled delicately. Needless to say Mycroft was very reluctant to let Sherlock handle this, but he made the mistake of assuming that Sherlock's new found politeness toward John would count for other people too.

Sherlock claimed afterwards that he didn't know the diplomat would object so strongly to having his wife knowing about his boyfriends. Yes plural. He also said that his intelligence had been insulted. He didn't seem to care that these two statements were completely contradictory.

Mycroft seemed very mad at the fact that John had gotten involved. But what was he going to do, he couldn't just let someone blatantly insult Sherlock's.

In retrospect, he should have known that Sherlock couldn't just leave it there and walk away. He had to go dragging the poor guy out of the metaphorical closet. In front of his wife and half the British parliament. It might have still been alright, had Sherlock not continued to then insult the rest of the parliament. It might have still been alright, had all of his accusations not been true. Of course they were, though.

Which is why the were now in a very cramped cell. With solid walls and a door with a tiny window. And one single bed.

"Mycroft. You. Can. Not. Do. This," John articulated his words very carefully, trying to not lose his temper. Sherlock was sitting on the bed pointedly looking at the opposite wall and avoiding his brother. Not saying a word. In fact, he hasn't said a word since they were thrown in here.

Mycroft paused before saying in his smooth voice, weighing each word: "John, please understand, I need to keep you out of the way while this blows over. It would very much give the wrong idea if we just let the men who had single-handedly ripped a very large part of the country's leadership system to shreds, walk free."

"Mycroft, this cell is for one." It was, granted, not the most clever thing to say. That was the least of their worries. But John couldn't find any holes in Mycroft's argument, so he just blurted out the first thing that could possibly be construed as Mycroft failing. "Ah

, yes John." We didn't really expect two people to ever be in this situation"

"And what situation is that, exactly."

"Just wait while I get this sorted out," as Mycroft said this, a tint of annoyance crept into his voice. He turned on his heel and left.

John, knowing that it would be useless to call after him, decided to preserve what was left of his dignity. So he sat down on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and proceeded to glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked, almost... scared, then he, very unexpectedly, began speaking:

"What, ok ? I'm sorry. Is that what you want me to say John ? Because you know as well as I do I won't mean it."

John winced at his hard tone, but Sherlock just went on:

"I can see the way you are looking at me, John. You are scared. You are scared that I am going down again, and this time I am taking you with me. I am sorry John. Not for what I said, I meant that. I need to defend myself. Nobody understands what I am saying. Why I am saying it. Everyone has always taken of running in the opposite direction after they see the real me. So I don't bother hiding the real me anymore." Sherlock was now talking so fast he was falling over his words to get them all out. "Except you John. You were the first one to not run away. You stayed. And I didn't. I couldn't drag you down with me." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "And now I am doing it anyway. Look at this, John, how are you still here. I am sorry for dragging you into this." He was standing now, almost shouting. "Dammit, John, why did you defend me. You could have just stood back and kept yourself safe. Now I am scared too, what if I can't keep you safe now. This is my fault. The one thing in the world I love and I can't even keep it safe." Sherlock just realized what he said and for once in his life, he seemed to have run out of words

.

Then John, who had been listening with increasing surprise and shock, unable to move, woke from his trance. And he knew. He knew what to do. Now. So he simply stood. Looking in Sherlock's eyes, he finally felt like he could say those words. "I love you, Sherlock," he said It like it was a fact, a fact and a confession. He felt the relief washing through him as he let those words finally escape him. Like a tidal wave he had kept at bay, he let them go. They washed through the room. They washed over them, taking away the pretences and awkwardness. Drowning him in relief. Then he suddenly felt his legs give way under him. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders for support, but didn't find it. It seemed that Sherlock was equally unable to support himself. So they both slid to the floor in an uneven pile, not quite knowing what to feel yet.

That is more or less exactly how Mycroft found them a few hours later. In each others arms, leaning against the wall. John's head resting on the longer man's shoulder, fast asleep. Sherlock looked up when he noticed Mycroft's presence and very carefully shook his head once. Mycroft nodded. He understood. Not yet. Give us a bit more time. Please. So even though the whole thing had been sorted out, Mycroft let them be.

So sherlock and John, the detective and the doctor, finally found each other. After being lost for far, far too long. And just long enough.

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_**Sorry about it being so long, I just couldn't bring myself to edit anything out. Dear guest-reviewer. I danced a little bit when I read your review. They make me so happy. Please. Please review. **_

**_I love writing these._**

**_Till tomorrow, all my love ;) _**


	4. Chapter 3

**Hi guys, I'm sorry I am putting this up later than usual. I just had to leave my Christmas shopping until the last POSSIBLE minute, so I was forced to brave Holiday jingles and a very large amount of people today. This is a very fluffy piece. Hope you enjoy. Thank you for the reviews and everything. Observationoftrifles made me feel very special yesterday, thank you so much sweetie. You guys are free to point out any and all plot holes and mistakes, I would actually really appreciate any help with my writing. **

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**Chapter 3**

Eventually Mycroft had come back and released them, assuring them that everything was sorted out and that they were not to, under any circumstances, contact any member of the British parliament. He even provided them with a list, Sherlock threw it away without even a cursory glance. Mycroft frowned, but didn't say anything. He also didn't say anything about the fact that when they walked out, John had his arm around Sherlock's waist and Sherlock had casually swung his arm over John's shoulders.

John knew that they desperately needed to talk, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so when he was finally in the embrace of the man he loved. He couldn't bring himself to do something as mundane as talk, when he could finally feel those soft dark curls tickling his cheek while they walked.

Eventually his arm was starting to develop pins and needles, so he dropped it a bit and was rewarded by a slightly disappointed look that slipped momentarily over Sherlock's face. The early morning light cast a soft edge on his usually sharply sculpted features. Through his exhaustion -they had been in the cell overnight-, he felt his heart beating, wildly trying to escape the confines of his chest. His own body no longer seemed sufficient to contain his ecstacy.

Then a shrill sound interrupted his trance. It took him a few moments to realize his phone was ringing. By the time he managed to fish it out of his pocket without letting go of sherlock- London could be burning to the ground and he wouldn't let go- it was flickering with a new message. He silently flicked it open and listened.

"Dammit, I'm sorry Sherlock, I need to go to the office, Sarah needs me. I'm sorry if this wasn't urgent I wouldn't-"

Sherlock surprised him by bending down slightly and placing a silent kiss on his cheek before calmly striding away, long coat billowing behind him.

For a full minute John just stood there. Blinking. When he finally came to his senses he hailed a cab and headed for the clinic. He had a difficult time organising his thoughts, but the one thing he managed to realize was that he needed to do this right. So before going home he made a few stops.

As he entered 221b, Sherlock was on his feat immediately. John felt very, very nervous. "Right, Sherlock," he cleared his throat.

"John, why do you sound so formal," Sherlock interrupted. John wanted to start speaking again, but Sherlock was going strong already: "You're hands are nicked, but small cuts, not a razor then. You wouldn't have shaved at the clinic anyway. Perhaps thorns, but you haven't been to the park, there is no dirt on your shoes. And no scuff marks so you didn't clean them, either. We don't have plants. So... Florist. But you didn't buy anything, your wallet still has the loose change from this morning. You didn't have your credit card, so you would have had to use that. And, obviously no flowers. So you were hesitant but wh- Oh. OH. Yes of course John." Sherlock said the last sentence with a bit of a silly, lopsided grin.

John should have been used to this by now; he wasn't. "Yes ?"

"You were going to ask me on a date. You haven't ever asked a man on a date, hence the hesitancy."

"I just wanted to do this right."

"John, I hate movies"

"What," he managed to utter.

"Ticket John, your holding a movie ticket."

"Oh"

"But I'll go with you," Sherlock paused and then almost hesitantly - John had never seen Sherlock do something hesitantly in his life- added: "I'll go anywhere with you."

"You got one thing wrong, Sherlock," Sherlock looked at him with an inquisitive expression."It wasn't that I was nervous asking a man on a date... I was nervous asking you," as John said this he felt his face flush.

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction, It was such a minute movement you wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't memorised every last detail on that, almost ethereal, face. Words. I need to use words, John reminded himself. "So you'll come then ?" Sherlock, who has not yet made the same discovery about words, silently offered John his arm, he was smiling from ear to ear.

They walked to the cinema, talking and laughing. Occasionally one of them would suddenly feel like he was immersed in a dream and would reach out, simply touching the other. Checking if this amazing fantasy was actually a reality. They had known each other for years, yet it was like they were rediscovering each other completely. They were hesitantly exploring completely uncharted territory and they were doing it together.

They did go into the cinema, and John honestly meant to watch the movie. Sherlock hated movies though, so, a few minutes in he got very bored. He tried to endure it, but after about ten more minutes, he decided to start entertaining himself by whispering details of the actors lives -he had deduced them of course; Sherlock Holmes does not read gossip magazines- into John's ear. Then he started giving away key plot points as he figured them out. Normally John would have been furious, but Sherlock was placing his mouth very close to John's ear, that, combined with the warm breath tickling his cheek in the cold cinema, made it extremely hard to focus.

After a while Sherlock grew bored with this too. So he whispered in John's ear: "arms". John let it go -he was at this point still nurturing some obscure hope to watch the film- but when after a few minutes Sherlock whispered: "hair," John had to ask. Sherlock replied: "I'm just whispering things I like about you, John. Obviously". This made John squirm even more... As Sherlock continued, his level of appropriateness decreased significantly.

John made a mental not to never again bring his detective to a movie.

A few weeks later, Lestrade asked John if he had seen that specific movie. He said that he didn't. He wasn't lying, he couldn't even remember the title.

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**Hi guys, i am just quickly replacing this chapter, because there were a lot of mistakes in my author's note. My phone seems to be acting up a bit. There wll be a two part x-mas special tomorrow. Thanks for reading and thanks again observationoftrifles, there is still smile on my face. **

**Till tomorrow, all my love ;)**


	5. Chapter 4

_AaHi guys. I'm barely getting this up before midnight over here. I'm sorry, it has been absolute chaos. I'm switching the challenge around a bit. This is part one of (my) day 4, kissing. To be continued tomorrow. Thank you for the support everyone, especially observationoftrifles. Sweetie, I can't manage to pm you, a new year special is a brilliant idea, thank you ! This is short and sweet. Till tomorrow, all my love. _

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When John and Sherlock finally escaped the confines of the movie theatre, they found a very cold, wet London evening awaiting them. John glanced down at his watch and by pure chance noticed the date, it was December 23rd. He exclaimed in surprise. "Sherlock, tomorrow night is Christmas Eve!" While neither John nor Sherlock had ever really celebrated Christmas, this year felt special, of course. Sherlock and John had, had many Holiday seasons together in baker street, Mycroft and Sherlock weren't by any means on good enough terms to celebrate together and pretty much the same went for John and Harry. Sherlock and John had both lost their parents. In a way this made them all each other had.

Christmas in baker street always entailed a dinner John cooked which Sherlock pretended to eat. They would sit together like any other evening and talk or share comfortable silence, never anything special, but it was their way of celebrating. One evening a year where Sherlock wouldn't talk about cases or complain about boredom. They always, since the very first Christmas together, exchanged small gifts. Sherlock guessed his, but still acted surprised. John knew this but acted like he didn't.

This year, John had forgotten Christmas completely. When Sherlock left he had no desire to celebrate Christmas, but he did go with Mary to her family for the one they had together. He spent the whole time miserably thinking of how cosy Baker Street with Sherlock used to be.

"Oh, Sherlock, I didn't get you anything," John blurted out when he realised he had been silent for a while. "Well John, I think I can forgive you for your lack of a present for your boyfriend if you would do me the honour of accompanying me on a date tomorrow night." John had heard everything, but there was one word in particular that seemed to be stealing all of his attention. "Boyfriend," John said, feeling an odd surge of pleasure as the word rolled over his tongue, a soft caress over his lips. Sherlock misunderstood: "Oh, John I apologise-" He just smiled and quietly placed his index finger on Sherlock's lips. "Of course I will. Where are we going ?" Sherlock quickly shook his startled expression and grinned. "Why 221b of course, we have a tradition, have we not ?" John just smiled. Christmas at Baker Street. Al was right with the world again.

John had, had a plan for the following morning. He wanted to make their first kiss special. He wanted to buy mistletoe and surprise sherlock.

He had quickly decided this after they had arrived home from the movie the previous night, utterly exhausted. John did want to kiss Sherlock then, but he was so overwhelmed with nerves that he just gave the detective an awkward hug and promptly fell asleep on the couch.

Sherlock wanted to kiss John too, but he could count on one hand the amount of people he had ever romantically kissed. So he was completely overwhelmed with fear and instead he just gave John a rather formal hug. He hoped John didn't lose interest. Sherlock was always logical, but when it came to John, his head was like tangled string; he was unable to deduce any clear and coherent patterns.

Back to John's plan. He woke up on the couch, comfortably tucked under a blanket, with a faint feeling of excitement and dull happiness. Then he slowly started to form thoughts. Thoughts that slowly formed into a name: Sherlock. He couldn't stop thinking about him. His skin. His hair. His voice. His lips. He needed to kiss him, he wanted to kiss him. He needed to be close to Sherlock. Now.

Like in the jail cell, when he had finally said those four words, he had an overwhelming feeling of urgency. So he walked towards Sherlock's bedroom. He felt a invisible force guiding him. He couldn't, wouldn't, wait one single minute more than he already had. He arrived at the door and swung it open without hesitating. To his surprise Sherlock was standing before him, outstretched hand hovering right where the door knob was a few moments ago.

Then their eyes met. John understood. Sherlock had exactly the same intentions. Great minds do think alike.

**_To be continued..._**

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_ I'm sorry for any mistakes, as mentioned exhaustion is taking hold of me. Love you guys for reading. Merry, merry christmas 3 (or anything else you may be celebrating, if you have a different religeon) _


	6. Chapter 5

Hey guys, this time it's not my fault, the damn site was down. I've had this ready for hours. Hope you enjoy, this is day 5: 'Kissing part 2'. I will at some point in the challenge combine two days, so it will still be 30 days. Thank you for the support everyone !

Dedicated as always to my dearest MorMor with a's. You are the reason I'm here.

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**Chapter 5**

He stepped forward. They were close now, John could see the specks of grey in Sherlock's otherwise blue eyes. He could count every long black eyelash. To his momentary surprise, Sherlock was the first to lean forward. He placed his careful hand on John's face, cupping his jaw and tilting his head upward. He hesitated for a moment, then everything melted around them as they both stepped forward at the exact same time.

The moment they crashed against each other, John felt electricity in the air. There were no other words. Lightning surged through his veins as their lips met, roughly and desperately. Arms wrapped around each other, exploring that which they had only thought possible in their wildest fantasies. John tried to convey, through that single kiss, all the lost moments: every time they brushed hands, every time he had wanted to confess but hadn't. He didn't want this, he needed it. He needed this more than he needed oxygen, if he could breathe Sherlock he would. He moaned softly and pressed deeper into the kiss, lightly nipping Sherlock's bottom lip, teasingly prying his lips open. He felt Sherlock grabbing at his back as obsessed passion took over. Sherlock pushed him against the door, slamming it closed against John's back, the resulting bang knocked several pictures of the wall, glass shattering as they hit te floor. The entwined couple hardly noticed. John started to tangle his hands into Sherlock's silky curls. He was moments away from losing all ties to reality when a shrill voice interrupted: "Boys, what on earth are you doing up there," it was Mrs Hudson, rapidly ascending the stairs. It was the single hardest thing John ever had to do, to untangle himself from his detective. Sherlock groaned, he looked so unbelievably disappointed that it took all John had to open the door to go meet Mrs Hudson.

As John excited the bedroom, Mrs Hudson swung the door open and John's phone began ringing at almost the exact same moment. John answered without looking at the caller ID and turned towards the bedroom. He was faintly aware of D.I. Lestrade talking on the other end of the line as he watched Sherlock emerge with growing horror. His shirt was torn in several places, lips red and swollen, hair an incoherent mess, and several red love bites shone on the brilliantly white skin of his neck, where several buttons were missing from his shirt. John saw his own expression mirrored on Sherlock's face and glanced down, noting with a strange sense of distance that he was in a similar state of duress. He glanced at the bemused expression on Mrs. Hudson's face and realised with a start that Greg was still on the line.

"Dammit, sorry, yeah Greg... What were you saying ?...Yeah right I mean, it's Christmas... Yeah, yeah ok I'll tell him," John hung up the phone and looked at Sherlock, who had stood frozen the whole time. The urgency in John's eyes shook him into action. "We need to go. I'll explain on the way," John managed to utter while grabbing his jacket and a scarf. Sherlock was right behind him. They ran down the stairs, straightening themselves and dressing hurriedly. Outside they hailed a cab, on the journey John explained that several messages containing death threats had been sent to the NSY. One had already been acted upon, the body of a primary school teacher had been found this morning. The next threat was for Christmas Eve. "John, you don't have to come, you could still have Christmas at Baker Street, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will eat with you-" John interrupted Sherlock by straightening a few of his curls: "And miss this case, never." Sherlock read between the lines of John's words: "I'm not leaving your side if there is even a remote chance of danger."

As they excited the cab halting at the first crime scene, they quickly checked that their clothes were more or less covering all the signs of their earlier... kiss.

It turned out to be a very easy case, but it still led them all the way across London chasing the murderer. They managed to track him to an abandoned warehouse a few hours later and made the arrest. It was straightforward, but without Sherlock's help, there would have been another victim. As they started walking to the cab, John again glanced down at his watch. "Sherlock, it's midnight, Merry Christmas !" Then Sherlock did the single most surprising thing John had ever seen him do, and that is saying a lot. He raised his voice, addressing all the nearby members of the NSY, including Donovan, Lestrade and Anderson. "I am now going to kiss this man. I love him and since you deprived us of our quiet evening at home, with your inability to do your own job and completely ruined our date... You leave me no choice," Sherlock said this with all of his usual arrogance. He then lowered his head, circled his arms around John's waist and slowly placed his satin-like lips over the doctor's thinner ones. This kiss was slow, deliberate, planned. John felt this with every soft, deepening stroke of Sherlock's tongue. He reached up and laced his fingers at the back of his detective's neck.

It was a kiss that dulled everything around them. It was a kiss that consumed them. But most importantly, it was a kiss that celebrated the lifetime of kisses that lay ahead.

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I know it's a bit late to ask for a Christmas present, but please review. Thank you for reading and untill tomorrow, all my love.


	7. Chapter 6

Hi guys, this is another to-be-continued. Also, by unanimous decision of the voices in my head, I have decided to just skip "day 4- on a date." So without any further delays, here is 'day 6: wearing each other's clothes' (I tweaked it a tiny bit.

I lied. One more delay. Dedicated to the friendly neighbourhood angstaholic. MorMor with a's, without you, John and Sherlock would just sit next to each oher in bed talking about love all day.

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**Chapter 6**

As their kiss deepened, John suddenly became very aware that they were in front of the entire NSY, he was also aware that this didn't bother him in the slightest- until, until he heard Donovan snort. A cruel high pitched sound that seemed to pierce the very fibre of his being. It echoed one sentence inside John's mind: "I'm not gay." He thought of all the times he had said that; suddenly Sherlock's tongue gliding on his lips felt very... alien.

Without pausing to think. To think that this might just be an overreaction to his very sudden and unexpected public confession, he pushed Sherlock away from him, none to gently, and ran.

He didn't stop to think about the three years he had to live through without Sherlock. He didn't think how much he had loved him since he first heard that velvety voice. He didn't think about how he had just left Sherlock, who had perhaps done the first truly spontaneous thing in his life, standing alone and more vulnerable than he had ever been.

He just ran, he heard that hollow promise inside his head with every pounding step. "Not gay. Not gay. Not gay. Not gay." For the first time, he thought what being with Sherlock would truly mean. As he ran, a string of images flashed through his mind. He had always pictured himself at his wedding, watching a bride walking towards him. He had pictured himself with his children. He didn't know what to think of a future with Sherlock. "Not gay." By now he was gasping for breath, but he couldn't stop running."Not gay." He needed to get away. He wanted to go home, but he couldn't do that; 221b was his home. He thought of the ghastly yellow smiley, the bullet holes, the brown wallpaper. That was home. He could almost smell it. It smelled like Sherlock. "Not gay." Sherlock was so inextricably tied with 221b. He didn't know how to think of one without the other, that was why it took him almost three years to return after-.

He couldn't bring himself to think those words. After Sherlock died. Suddenly, his entire world spun. It had started to rain and each drop seemed like a drop of burning hot lead on his skin. He remembered how his universe had been torn apart the moment he saw Sherlock hit the ground.

Sherlock stood, frozen, as he watched the first human being he had loved run away from him. He felt as if the ground was ripped from underneath him, as he watched the one who never left, leave.

He felt ice running down his spine as his legs gave way and he dropped to the ground. He didn't know how long he sat there amidst a crowd of staring people. Slowly the crowd thinned, Anderson tried to help him up, but he just sat there staring into space. Engulfed by emptiness. A sociopath with a broken heart. Eventually it began to rain, cars started driving away. Everybody left him there, including John. Apparently he really was to much of a freak. Even for the one person he had always counted on.

* * *

John stood there in the rain as the scene payed over and over in his head. He saw Sherlock's head hit the pavement. His heart broke. He saw him jump. His heart broke. His heart broke more with every time he saw that, yet he couldn't stop seeing it. His heart was slowly battling with his mind. Showing him that he had lost Sherlock once, asking him if he could live through it again. Then his heart won. Screw the future. Screw not gay. Screw a wedding with a bride and a family. He would give it all up for Sherlock. He would be happy to. He would give everything up for Sherlock and then some. He would be gay for him. He would be anything Sherlock needed.

Then a new string of words and images bombarded him. He saw himself with Sherlock, laughing. He felt his hands in Sherlock's hair. And then he saw Sherlock standing alone in the rain, left there. "What have I done," the phrase clawed through him with renewed desperation as he turned around and started running back. He would run after Sherlock for the rest of his life if he could be forgiven. He would never stop running to him.

* * *

Sherlock looked up when he heard the footsteps, he saw John and for a second hope flitted through him. Quickly replaced by bitter anger. He stood, he would be strong. He would not let John see him broken.

"Sherlock, I need-" "What do you need John, what else can I possibly give you," his voice had risen to hysteria with an impossibly hard edge. An edge John had last heard when three thugs had attacked Mrs Hudson: "I gave you my heart and you broke that. I gave you my entire heart. What else do you want from me John ? Do you want my coat ?" He tore his coat of and threw it at John. John just stood there, he knew he deserved this. He didn't defend himself. This made Sherlock even angrier. "You can rip that to pieces too. Here John, take my scarf." He threw John with that too. "Take everything. Come by Baker Street later and you can take everything that is there too. Take everything I own John. You already took everything that mattered when you ran away from me," his voice broke on the last four words. He set his face into a hard mask and walked away.

John was too shocked to follow. He just picked up the coat and the scarf. Slowly he wrapped them around himself, desperately wanting to cling to any piece of Sherlock. This time he was the one being left behind. He felt his own tears mix with the rain on his face. He didn't know if these were the last pieces of Sherlock he would ever have. "What have I done?"

**To be continued...**

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When deciding whether to review or not, remember that I decide how this ends... nah, I'm just kidding... or am I ? Nah... I love you guys for reading.

Until tomorrow, all my love :D


	8. Chapter 7

Hi guys, thank you for all the reviews yesterday. Wow, waffle and observationoftrifles you made me so happy. This chapter is unbelievably long, even by my standards. Please stay with me, though. Love you guys for reading, until tomorrow, all my love. For MorMor with a's, always. (Oh and this is 'day 7: cosplaying')

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**Chapter 7**

As John stood there, soaked to the bone and feeling more alone than he ever had before, it occurred to him how much of a colossal mess he had made of things. He could still slightly smell Sherlock on the scarf. He needed to go to him, ne needed to explain.

He ran after Sherlock, catching him a few blocks later. "Sherlock, I need to explain," John gasped. The detective set his face into a stony expression and glared at John. Well, at least he isn't running away, John thought. He struggled for the words: "Sherlock, the thing is, I was shocked, I wasn't expecting it. Sherlock, my whole life I have been straight and the thing is, I'd be gay for you. I'd be anything for you, I just wish I had realised it on time." Sherlock looked at John with an inscrutable expression: "So do I." Then he walked away. This time, John didn't have the strength to follow.

John wandered around London that night, not knowing what to do. He would spend his entire life apologising to Sherlock, he would show him that he, John Watson, will not be another one that leaves. Would it ever be enough, though? Would Sherlock ever leave his shell again. John had hurt the love of his life and he didn't know if anything would ever be enough again.

In the early hours of the morning, he returned to 221B. He hammered on Sherlock's door and when there was no answer, he sat down with his back leaning against the wood, moments later he was asleep.

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. He didn't know what to feel. John was the first person he had ever loved, of course he had forgiven him. He ripped his heart out, but he still forgave him. He had, however, not forgiven himself. He was not enough. He would never be enough for John. He wanted to stab himself, maybe that would take away the humiliation he felt. Why would John want anyone to know that he had feelings for a freak.

It had taken John all of the time they knew each other and three years thinking that he was dead, to even accept those feelings. Of course he wouldn't want to it be public. He couldn't love John, he couldn't do that to John, he loved him to much to let him bet on a losing horse. He had to push him away. He had to carefully rebuild the walls he had torn down for John.

Sherlock felt his heart break into a thousand pieces when he opened his bedroom door, only to have John crashing to the floor at his feet. He had waited for him, he didn't leave when Sherlock pointedly didn't answer his door. This was going to be hard. You can do this; you can do this for him, he reminded himself.

So for weeks, John tried everything, he brought Sherlock tea, even though he knew it would just go to waste. Sherlock started going to cases alone. John tried to help when the detective came home. Sherlock ignored him (when he wasn't making snide remarks). And John just remained patient. He was determined to show Sherlock that he wouldn't leave. And Sherlock was determined to get John to leave. He could not be so selfish to demand John give all of his dreams up. Not for him.

Eventually, one day, almost a month after the fight, something finally pushed John over the edge. John had, again, patiently fixed Sherlock a cup of tea. When he saw how thin the detective was, he was concerned, so he told Sherlock: "I need you to drink this, I need you to not starve." Sherlock just looked at him, expression unreadable: "Oh, you need me to live. How interesting," Sherlock remarked, punctuation the 'you' with care. This was the very last straw. "Yes, Sherlock, I need you to not starve. I lost you once, I don't intend to do it again. If you haven't noticed, I'm not going anywhere. I am staying right here. You are the love of my fucking life, so if you love me or not, if you talk to me or not, I am here to stay. So you might as well not die, because I don't know how I'll go on without you. You annoying git." John had shouted all of this.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he had lost the ability to form words. He had been tentatively and carefully reconstructing the walls that protected him and John had just knocked them all down, again. He was helpless, so before he could stop himself he asked: "Will you help me with a case, then ?"

This completely floored John, he had been expecting the detective to run. To yell. To make a snide remark. He wasn't complaining though, so he adopted his best 'I-am-talking-to-a-frightened-deer-voice' and said: "Sure, of course."

Sherlock felt himself grinning, he felt himself slowly beginning to not care how selfish it would be to let John love him. If he was going to stay anyway... Maybe they could be friends at least. Maybe a small part of John would be enough. He could learn to let it be enough.

"Well," said Sherlock, slowly starting to feel happier than he had all month: "We are going to do something called cosplaying." John saw the mischievous twinkle in Sherlock's eyes, he never thought he would see that look again.

John felt a smile spread on his own face, it felt strange, he hadn't smiled for a while. "Right then, who are we cosplaying." Sherlock let out an involuntary chuckle: "Ourselves."

Apparently, there had been a murder at a Sherlock-and-John convention, this was essentially a gathering of their fans dressed in classic Sherlock and John fashion acting out the solving of a mystery. Sherlock hadn't intended to take the case, as he needed John, but now... Now it seemed rather perfect.

As Sherlock saw John emerge in his favourite oatmeal jumper, he was visited by a strong desire to hold the doctor and never let him go.

Selfish... Who cares ? ... You do, about him... What about me ?

He had been having this argument with himself for the last month. He pushed the voices away and threw on his coat as he excited 221B, John at his side.

The convention was at a house in the countryside and the drive was rather awkward. John would say something and Sherlock, not wanting to hurt or encourage him would start with giving a nice reply and then cut himself off, very abruptly.

At the convention, they were completely shocked when they saw quite a few other couples, all dressed exactly the same way. Oatmeal jumper, coat, scarf. Some were good copies, others not. One of the shorter fellows bore a very strong resemblance to John. No one quite matched Sherlock. They felt very uncomfortable when they realised that a large portion of the duo's were girls.

All in all, it was one of the strangest experiences of their respective lives. They had to follow rules to solve the murder in the game, all the while trying to figure out who the actual murderer was. It took everything John had to restrain Sherlock from deducing anything about the staff members. They hung in the back, trying not to win. They couldn't help that they were unnaturally good at the game.

They were also, rather ironically, told by one of the more competitive couples that they were: "A completely slap-dash copy of the real thing. Honestly, who would buy into those costumes. Really."

In the coming years, they would both agree on one thing. The weekend reached a climax on the final evening.

"John," Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, sitting on one of the twin beds in their room (Sherlock had been extremely careful to avoid anything remotely romantic for the entire weekend): "The puppies !" John just looked at him blankly. "No listen, the innkeeper said that there were five puppies right ? But this whole time, how many have you seen ?" John was starting to understand: "Four, but Sherlock just because there's a puppy missing..." "What did Anderson say the murder weapon was ?" John shifted: "Her throat was slit, with a small, sharp object like a nail, only sharper like a-" "Diamond, a diamond, much like something a young puppy would swallow." "And remember the waiter-" "With one diamond earring." In their excitement, they had started to complete each other's sentences.

John glanced out of the window at that precise moment and in a stroke of pure luck, spotted a small form, that resembled the waiter, carrying a wriggling bundle. Almost immediately Sherlock followed his line of site and by unspoken decision they both clambered out of the ground floor window of their room and started running.

The waiter turned around at the commotion, momentarily losing track of the puppy in his arms. A moment was enough. The small dog escaped and took of, running in a completely different direction at remarkable speech. Sherlock, John and the waiter all gave chase. Sherlock, being a very good runner, reached the dog first, grabbing him as John tackled the waiter- knocking him out on impact.

Later that night John and Sherlock found themselves in a vet's office, waiting - with half of the NSY- for the vet to finish on the puppy.

The vet came back three hours later to inform them that he had successfully found and removed a diamond from the puppy. He also informed them that the puppy would need someone to care for him during his recovery.

It was at this point that Sherlock surprised John by leaning over and whispering in his ear: "well, since you are embarrassed to be seen with a freak, I might as well get something that isn't." Then he spoke louder, to the vet: "I'll take him."

To this day, Sherlock still didn't know if it was the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, pure desperation to end the argument he had been having with himself or a combination of the two that drove him to say those words to John, either way, he was glad he had. Because what John did next, shocked everyone even more.

When Sherlock said that, it was like all the pieces suddenly fell into place for John. He knew what he had to do now.

John got up on the counter and shouted: "Oi, everyone, listen up. Sherlock Holmes is the most stupid genius I have ever met." Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. "You see, for some reason he thinks I'm embarrassed to be with him. Well instead of asking me, like any normal human, he just pushed me away." Sherlock looked downright shocked that he had figured this out. "Oh yes, I know that's what you're doing. You do not kiss someone the way you kissed me if you don't love them. And yes Sherlock I love you. I wouldn't care if you had been a freak, which you aren't, because I would love you more because of it. And clearly I'm not embarrassed by you, so unless you can give me a very good reason why we shouldn't be together, I will not leave you. I'm the one who stays."

Every protest died in Sherlock's throat right then, because for once, he could not think of any reason to contradict John. For once he stopped thinking and let himself feel.


	9. Chapter 8

Hello guys. If you are reading this, it means that you actually survived that massive chapter yesterday. This one is short and sweet. A bit of fluff to relieve the angst I've been writing. Thank you, observationoftrifles, for reviewing every single chapter. The little green wheel that turns when I click the refresh button on my email has a large amount of power over my happiness. Please, please review. Until tomorrow, all my love.

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**Chapter 8 **

John stood on the counter, feeling more and more flustered by the second. He had been sure that this was a good idea. Now the eyes of about twenty people were fixed on him and he seemed to have run out of words.

Sherlock on the other hand, could not stop grinning. He was so happy that it wasn't going to be selfish to do all the things he had always wanted to do to John; well... to John, on John, under John - you get the idea, he had completely forgotten that his doctor was still on the counter.

John, cleared his throat: "Uhm, Sherlock ? Love ?" He said the last word very hesitantly. Sherlock suddenly seem to come alive as he realised that John was very uncomfortable. The tall detective stepped onto the counter in one impossibly fluid motion and whispered in John's ear: "I'm going to kiss you now. Don't run away again."

John just smiled and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's waist, pulling him close. When he felt Sherlock's heart beating hard against his own, his desperation became unbearable. He all but slammed his lips into Sherlock's.

The detective moaned softly as John's hands stroked the back of his neck. He slid his tongue over John's surprisingly soft lips, savouring the taste of John. He never wanted to taste anything else. He couldn't believe that it was possible for two human beings to occupy the space of one, that was before he had met John. He groaned as John's lips pushed harder into his.

After Lestrade had cleared his throat for the third time, they finally pulled apart and climbed down from the counter. Sherlock grinned sheepishly, John admired how he had never seen Sherlock look sheepish.

The NSY slowly started trickling out of the door, taking the diamond with them for forensic testing. Eventually only Sherlock and John were left, sharing a single cushion on the waiting room sofa, waiting for what was now, apparently, their puppy.

A few hours later they were heading home; Sherlock carrying a small, slightly injured, English Bulldog puppy. His expression was very -for lack of a better word- motherly. "Hi, well we do not have a name for you yet." John was confused for a moment, until he realised that Sherlock was talking to the dog.

He just watched with quiet amusement as Sherlock continued. "But I sure am glad we got that stone out of yo-" Sherlock stopped abruptly. "John, I got it !" John calmly asked: "What do you mean, love? We solved the case." "No, no ! We can call him Gladstone ! Because we were glad to get the stone out of him. Glad-stone"

John couldn't help it, he just laughed. "What's so funny, John ?" "Sherlock, you want to name this dog after William Ewart Gladstone ? One of Britain's greatest prime ministers ?" Sherlock looked at him quizzically, "Who ?" At this, John started shaking uncontrollably and when he finally got his breath back he turned to the dog: "You have a complete madman for a master, you need to know that, Gladstone."

That night, John slept comfortably in Sherlock's arms. There wasn't any form of discussion, it was an unspoken agreement. They were never letting go of each other. Not again. It was devastatingly romantic, until Gladstone wormed himself in between John and his detective.

The following morning, John dragged Sherlock to a department store.

"Sherlock, it is your dog, you are going to shop for it. It needs a bed and a firm hand" Sherlock looked adorable when he was indignant, "John, Gladstone is not an 'it'. Gladstone is a 'he'."

With a large amount of effort, John got Sherlock in a cab. The shopping went as well as you could expect it to go with Sherlock. He did have one employee, who didn't know which dog food brand was better for a pure-bred English Bulldog, in tears. He also caused quite an upset when he exposed one of the managers, that had some -questionable- business dealings.

In the end though, they got a bed for Gladstone. Because John had a few other ideas for the bed he now shared with Sherlock and none of them involved a young English Bulldog.


	10. Chapter 9

_I forgot to tell you, yesterday was 'day 8: cosplaying'._

_Hi guys, today is 'day 9: hanging out with friends'. Thank you guys for all the support, I'll continue this storyline tomorrow. _

_For my mormor with a's. _

_Until tomorrow, all my love. _

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**Chapter 9**

It was the morning of the 29th of December and a certain crime fighting duo were snuggled very close together in bed. Gladstone had, miraculously, started sleeping in his own bed. John woke with a distinct feeling of fuzzy happiness, which grew exponentially when he discovered that Sherlock's arm was comfortably draped over his chest.

"Mmm, love, you have to wake up," John said ruefully. "Mmph, why ?" Sherlock looked so peaceful, John decided to leave him sleeping. He needed to go out to get the paper. Their delivery was cancelled when Sherlock started texting them all the mistakes they made, in a fit of boredom.

He could go alone, it wasn't often that Sherlock slept this soundly: "Love, I'm just going to get the paper, be back in five." Sherlock slowly opened one eye: "No, John, don't go alone." John smiled, it was endearing when Sherlock was worried: "It's fine, what could possibly go wrong ?"

John would come to bitterly regret those words.

He dressed quickly and stepped into the crisp London air, half jogging to the nearest paper stand. He was still waking up, which is probably why he didn't notice the skulking figure that followed him from the entrance of 221B. The attendant at the stand was flirting with him and he was doing his best to work Sherlock into the conversation, this was probably why he didn't notice the figure drawing closer. In fact, he remained oblivious of the figure until a split second too late.

When he noticed the figure, it took him just a tiny bit too long to react. This is why the image of a dark figure was followed directly by a searing pain at the back of his head as blackness started to envelope his vision.

Sherlock slept for a good hour after John left. He awoke with a start, something was wrong, he could almost feel it. He slowly sorted through his memories, while wandering the apartment looking for John. His eyes came to rest on yesterday's paper, here was something familiar. Ah, yes, John had gone to get the paper. Something still felt wrong, John usually woke up around six, he very quickly plucked his phone out to check the time. It was almost eight and he had five missed calls from DI Lestrade. Now he was panicking. He ran out the door, throwing on his coat while he ran. He was still in the clothes he had worn yesterday, he didn't bother with shoes.

He hailed the nearest cab and was out before it had come to a full stop in front of Scotland Yard, pelting cash in after the driver. Arriving breathless at Greg's office, all he managed was a very concerned look.

Greg glanced down at the detective's bare feet and ushered him in without a word. A very scared looking girl was sitting in one of the chairs near the desk. Sherlock looked her over, his brain thrust into overdrive, he managed to ignore everything not related to John.

Her fingers; smudged with ink, she had read the paper recently. There were more than one smudge pattern, she worked with papers. Greg hadn't shown her out, she must be connected to John. Paper stand attendant then. Bruise pattern on her cheek indicating that she was trying to shield someone. Tucking her hair away, nervous habit. She must have been upset recently. She was chewing her nails, she hadn't in a while, they were starting to grow back. It must have been traumatic enough to fall back into the habit.

He had finally gotten his breath back: "What. Happened ?" The words were as much a threat as a question. Lestrade looked uncomfortable, "Look, Sherlock, we don't know much. We have one witness. The victim," he coughed awkwardly: "John, I mean, was out buying the paper, from Maria here, and someone attacked him. The person didn't have any outstanding characteristics, miss Maria is doing her best. She tried to shield John from the attacker. He knocked her out. Sherlock, we don't have much to go on and kidnapping isn't my department. Of course I'm trying to get involved." He was stuttering just slightly now, he felt undoubtedly guilty: "Sherlock, a few very important parliament members were murdered this morning and ten more are being held hostage, Mycroft and the entire NSY, we are in over our heads Sherlock. We just can't spare anybody right now. I'm trying, though..." His voice trailed off.

Sherlock realised that he had never really been angry, not before now. All other anger he had ever experienced paled in comparison to this. He was beyond furious. As a child he had kept his emotions carefully monitored, tempers accomplished nothing of value. He rarely let his temper get away from him, but when he did he always had the exact words ready. He had these words now, they had served him once before.

"Listen to me, Lestrade, I may be fighting on your side, the side of the angels," he involuntarily thought of Moriarty: "but do not, for one second, think that I am one of you. I do not care for any of your people, they would only slow me down. I am going to find John Watson. Now you can either send someone with me to make sure I do not kill anyone who harmed a single hair on his head, or you can let me go alone. The choice is yours. Oh, and don't think some rookie will keep me at bay. I expect your best or none at all. You can pass the message to Mycroft. I'll be heading to that paper stand now."

John awoke and tried to lift his head, he regretted it immediately, as a sharp pain shot through his skull. Slowly and reluctantly he opened his eyes to observe his surroundings. He was in a small space with no windows and no other furniture, probably a basement. Moving his legs, he discovered that he was tied to a cold steel chair. The ropes were very secure, no amount of tugging could undo them.

"Ah, John Watson, finally awake then." John squinted to see the killer, he was tall with unremarkable features. In fact, he was almost remarkably ordinary. So plain, it looked almost... engineered. Yet John could never forget that face, a face that still haunted his nightmares. It had been an impossible situation, he winced as he though back to that day. John struggled to make sense of the situation, how was this even possible ?

A humorously macabre thought entered his head as the soldier pulled out a small scalpel. He couldn't help but think that when he had told Sherlock he wanted to hang out with some old friends, this was not what he had in mind.

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**_To be continued..._**


	11. Chapter 10

**Hey guys, I am so sorry for publishing this so very late. I was very, very busy and had a truly monstrous case of writers block. (Seriously, I spent two bloody hours deciding if Sherlock's skin was alabaster or marble) Anyhoo, I am publishing this now and it will be shortly followed by today's chapter.) This is day ten (I am a third of the way through this challenge !) "with animal ears".**

**This is a warning for some violence in this chapter.**

**Dedicated as always to you, MorMor with a's. **

_**Thank you to every single person for their support. Reviews mean the absolute world to me.**_

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**Chapter 10**

"You, Doctor John Watson, had left me. You had a choice. You escaped and left me for dead." His kidnapper's mouth formed a thin, disapproving line on the word doctor. John was desperately trying to neaten the thoughts in his mind. This man, Sebastian Moran, had been in his platoon and he had been escorting John to a scene where a medic was needed in the front-lines. They were not expecting an attack. A deranged and very sadistic warlord had captured them for information, information they didn't have.

Eventually, after countless scars, he had come to the conclusion that they either didn't know anything or weren't going to give anything up. Then he had decided to use the two for his own purposes. He had removed them from their separate cells and flipped a coin; apparently John won, or lost, depending on how you look at it. The warlord had given John a choice, he could either save a city full of people from the bombs planted there and be set free himself, or he could let Sebastian go free and he would burn with the city. If john didn't choose, the Warlord would kill them both and burn the city. He had to choose between living with the guilt of one death, or dying with the guilt of millions.

John had to save as much lives as he could. He still remembered that deep yearning to tell the bastard to just let everything burn, but there were children in that city. He needed to save them. His only comfort was that he was sure Sebastian would have done the same. They had been dragged away after John made the choice; he was shot in the shoulder for his slight hesitation. John was set free into the desert with no food and assumed Sebastian was dead. After a while, a patrol had found him. Back at the base he was told that there was no sign of Sebastian and they couldn't afford a rescue mission. The city had been bombed anyway.

John had played these facts over in his mind so many times; he had played out every possible scenario. He has never been able to come up with anything else he could have done.

"Sebastian," he groaned: "it was an impossible situation. What should I have done? Should I have let you go and let the thousands of children in that city burn?" Sebastian's eyes flashed: "They burned anyway." He still had that quiet manner of speaking, it reminded John a little of Moriarty. John tried to find his voice again: "How did you get out?" At this, Sebastian just smiled: "I didn't. I was rescued." No that wasn't right, it couldn't be: "What do you mean? The base told me they couldn't afford a patrol." Again, infuriatingly, Sebastian smiled. A calm and placid smile, for someone who is holding at least a dozen torture instruments. "I didn't say who rescued me, John. But they didn't arrive until I had been tortured again; I just felt it might be my turn to even things out a bit."

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Sherlock was running down Baker Street. He had been searching for three hours, without the slightest hint of a clue. This person was brilliant at cleaning up after themselves. He felt like he had when he saw The Woman for the first time, entirely blank. He had no idea where to go or what to do. It was a relatively new feeling, the road had always been so clear for him. He leaned against a wall and lowered his head into his hands. He needed to think. Mycroft had refused any help until the situation with the parliament had been sorted out. Sherlock wanted to scream, because for the first time in his life, he felt entirely helpless. There was always a way out, so why couldn't he find one this time ?

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John was in agony. He never thought he would have to feel this pain again, the pain of torture, the meaningless desecration of his body. He tried not to wince as Sebastian lowered the scalpel to one of his old scars, separating the scar tissue with almost artistic accuracy. John stayed strong, he didn't scream. He remained quiet until Sebastian violently yanked of the part of his shirt that covered the ugly, convoluted scar the bullet had left on his shoulder. When Sebastian yanked his arm forward, dislocating the very shoulder that still hadn't healed, that is when he screamed. "So," John managed to sneer through gritted teeth: "This is your big plan, give me some more ugly scars?" Sebastian's eyes had taken on a truly insane glint at these last words: "Oh, it is ugly scars you're worried about. Do you want me to make them pretty then? Well you are sly, saving your own skin like that…" His voice trailed away, leaving the sickening dripping sound of John's blood on the concrete floor to fill the silence.

He seemed to be musing. Suddenly he had purpose. He yanked the leg of John trousers off, causing it to tear at the knee. He positioned the leg so the side of John's calf was facing him. "Well, I guess foxes are sly right? I'm not really the artistic type, but I could give you a pair of pretty fox ears," he grabbed the scalpel, beginning to trace deep lines into the flesh. Deep lines that unmistakably formed grotesque fox-ears in scarlet on his tanned skin. Now John was terrified, Sebastian was completely insane. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it seemed that he couldn't take any more. His body began to fade and a tangible darkness swallowed him into relief.

* * *

Sherlock had never felt so alone and useless. He grabbed his violin, butchering the strings until they were on the precipice of snapping. He couldn't think. The only useful thing he had ever been able to do and it was stolen away. He had the distinct feeling that he was surrounded by people who could swim, while he was slowly drowning. He couldn't swim without John, maybe long ago, but not anymore. He sank onto the floor, carelessly tossing his violin away, causing a cacophony of noise.

The tears felt hot against his cheeks. He reached his hand under his chair, lifting the lining to remove a small wooden box. The needle was hovering inches over his marble skin. And then there was a thump against the door. Not a knock, a thump. Sherlock was about to let Mrs. Hudson get it when he remembered that she was visiting relatives. Then he thought he would let John get it. A sharp pain resounded through his chest at the thought of John. He threw the needle aside and walked to the door. He was flooded by the overwhelming feeling that, just this once, he should answer the door.

* * *

As Sherlock pulled open the door, a blood coated man collapsed onto his shoes, there was a note tied around his neck. Sherlock's legs grew week when he recognized the face. This was what was left of his John. He fell to his knees, long spidery fingers scurrying over John's skin as he hunted for the faintest trace of life throbbing in the doctor's veins.

_**To be continued**_

* * *

_Guys, I'm sorry. I have a bit of a __**to be continued**__ fetish. Until a bit later today, all my love. _


	12. Chapter 11

**Hi guys, this is just a short send off into the new year. I am completely ignoring day eleven's challenge and replacing it with this. I hope you guys enjoy. If you would help me to end the year on high note with a review, I would be so very happy. Thank you to everyone. Especially MorMor wth a's. **

**Make 2014 amazing ! **

**Until next year, all my love.**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

The moments in which Sherlock couldn't feel a pulse, those were the longest and most terrifying in the life of the world's only consulting detective. The moments in which he felt a pulse fluttering weakly under his fingertips, those were the happiest moments in the life of the world's only consulting detective.

Suddenly, with those few feeble beats of John's heart, Sherlock's way became clear again. His mind opened and he knew what to do. And if that was what just a few beats of the heart he loved could do, imagine what a lifetime of them could do. That heart would live, it needed to.

When John Watson opened his eyes, he was on the couch in 221B, staring into the eyes of the man he loved.

There was an ocean in those eyes. Not a calm ocean, they had the temperament of a ruthlessly stormy sea; crashing into the beach with unbridled passion. Behind those eyes raged battles unlike any that were ever seen in this world. Those eyes that John knew instantly, those eyes, with their ethereal grace and immortal beauty. If this was heaven, John thought, he would be absolutely fine.

As soon as the fog cleared from his thoughts he managed to learn from a very subdued Sherlock that he had been delivered to the front door with a note: "You took mine, I take yours, SM." Sherlock had then called Sarah, who had taken care of all John's injuries and told Sherlock to let him rest. He knew John wouldn't want to wake up in a hospital.

Then John told Sherlock everything. Once he started, he couldn't stop. It was like trying to tame a river, it couldn't be done. The words just poured out of him. He told him of the choice, the torture, of wishing he could see Sherlock just once before he died.

He delivered his entire speech looking at his hands. And he still refused to look up. He did not want to be witness to the change in Sherlock's eyes. He did not want to see pity, fear, anger, disappointment or hate in the eyes of the man he loved.

Sherlock carefully placed a hand underneath John's chin and gently helped him to look up. Because that was what Sherlock was, among so many other things, he was the strength John needed when he didn't have his own.

There was nothing in Sherlock's eyes that John expected, only sadness and love. Tears shone on his cheeks. "John," his voice was hoarse and soft: "Why didn't you tell me?"

John tested his own voice: "I couldn't. I didn't want you to be disappointed in me." His voice trembled. He sounded so childish. How could he expect Sherlock to love him? "Sherlock, I love you, but I'm broken. I want to be whole for you. So I pretend." Sherlock smiled sadly: "John, that is exactly why I love you, we are broken, both of us. Together we are whole. John, it is going to be a new year in a few minutes, I started this year incomplete, but I am not ending it so."

John stared, wide-eyed. And the only possible words in his mind, as he realized that every single word Sherlock had said was true, was all that was necessary: "Yes, love."

And so, together, the detective and the doctor shared an ending and a beginning. An ending of a year and of two separate pieces. A beginning of a lifetime as one.


	13. Chapter 12

_Hey guys, I'm exhausted, so no real A/N. Sorry if I made any mistakes anywhere in this one (or any one really.) Reviews make me happy. Thank you so much observationoftrifels. _

_ For you, the lovely MorMor with a's._

_ Until tomorrow, all my love._

_Oh, this is day 12: making out._

* * *

**Chapter 12**

John Watson may have been alive and home, but he was injured. Severely injured. Sarah had helped with the dislocated shoulder and cuts and he had went to the hospital for X-rays, he wanted to take every precaution. Luckily nothing was broken, but the scars that had been reopened would still cause him extreme pain. He needed a lot of time to heal.

After a month of resting, he was finally beginning to feel some of his injuries subside. He was still lacking some motor movement in his arm, but that was not nearly his most pressing concern at the moment.

John had never been someone who exuded confidence like Sherlock, he was never insecure though. Then he met the detective. Then he fell in love with the detective. Suddenly he was insecure about everything.

Since he was captured, he was especially aware of all his new scars, and the ones that were now even bigger after being reopened. It might not have plagued him otherwise, Sherlock seemed fine with them before. But for some reason, Sherlock was avoiding him now. Well not exactly avoiding him...

Sherlock had taken it upon himself to care for John. It was very sweet, but it was starting to work on his nerves a bit. Sherlock couldn't do anything right the first time, he wasn't exactly accustomed to domestic challenges. So while his intentions were good, John ended up with twice the amount of work.

He could deal with that. It was usually more endearing than annoying. The problem was that Sherlock avoided all physical contact with John. Sure he would give him a chaste kiss now and then, but the moment John tried anything more, he would simply awkwardly pat John on his uninjured shoulder and bring him a cup of tea. Sherlock had become his, if slightly incompetent, bloody caretaker. John wanted his boyfriend back.

John found himself, not for the first time, fantasising about throwing Sherlock with said tea... and them slowly licking the tea- yeah, he really needed something more than a peck on the cheek. Soon.

John assumed that Sherlock must find his scars repulsive, which is why he didn't confront Sherlock. He actually had a few very good reasons to assume that.

John was undressing gingerly in their shared bedroom, a few weeks earlier, when Sherlock walked in. He saw the horror on Sherlock's face as he took in Johns scarred skin and rapidly left the room. John couldn't help but think that maybe Sherlock hadn't know exactly how broken John was. This was the first of many similar incidents and it felt like each time a tiny bit of John died in the confines of that stare.

Sherlock was utterly terrified. He wanted to touch John, lord, he wanted to run his hands over every inch of- yeah, he needed something more than a peck on the cheek just as desperately. But he just didn't want to cause John any more pain. What if he got carried away and hurt his shoulder again. This was already his fault, he was so scared of being the thing that unravelled John completely.

So, as with almost every other situation concerning their relationship, Sherlock carried on believing that John knew exactly what he was thinking and John assumed, completely incorrectly, that he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

He avoided Sherlock, not wanting the detective to see his scarred body, and Sherlock assumed John was avoiding him because he was in too much pain to do any of the many, many things Sherlock wanted to do.

As a result, he avoided touching John.

It could have gone on forever, really. Luckily a certain army doctor has a very short fuse and a cup of tea was, yet again, the cause of a figurative explosion.

Sherlock, wanting to help John, brought him a cup of the ever present steaming liquid. As John reached over, the leg of his trousers lifted. It revealed the grotesque fox-ear scar on his calf.

He saw Sherlock wince at the site. That was it, the absolute limit, if he was going to make the man wince; he might as well leave. He intended to voice just that thought: "Sherlock, you know what, if you find me so very repulsive, I'll make myself scarce until I can get out of your hair. You obviously didn't know what you were signing up for when you said we were meant to complete each other." He could not keep the bitter edge from entering his voice.

Sherlock looked dumbstruck. He almost laughed as the whole misunderstanding became painfully clear in his mind.

Suddenly all of his doubts about hurting John seemed horribly boring. He could hardly remember his reasons for staying away as he cleared the coffee table in one easy step. By the time he had positioned his lips over John's, he didn't remember any reasons at all.

As their lips locked together in a perfect fit, he felt passion take over. He carefully licked his doctor's lips, desperation increasing with every second. He deepened their kiss, feeling the soft touch of John's tongue sliding over his. He pushed John down on the couch, running his hands over every inch of John while their bodies moved in unison. They were in perfect harmony. He felt the scars, almost caressing them, they were part of the man he loved. How could he ever find any part of his John even slightly irksome, and John though he found him repulsive. A shiver ran through him at the thought. He devoured the sensation overwhelming closeness.

The smell of apples and tea and that unmistakable aftershave flooded his senses, he couldn't hold himself back, not when he was surrounded by that scent that was so specifically John. He kissed a path down John's collarbone, leaving small, dark marks as he nipped tiny bits of the doctor's skin.

Then John groaned. Suddenly Sherlock was very conscious of the fact that people groan out of both pleasure and pain. He jumped back. "John, are you hurt, did I hurt you?" He was nearly shouting.

For John, the penny dropped at this exact second. So that is why Sherlock didn't want to touch him. A surge of understanding flooded him as the insecurity vanished. He leaned closer to Sherlock, letting his breath blow gently over Sherlock's ear: "I wouldn't care if you did, but no." He smirked as a thought shot through his mind: "Actually Sherlock, do you still have that riding crop?"


	14. Chapter 13

**Hey guys. I was so completely without insprition for this chapter. It is day 13: eating ice cream. I looked at pictures of ice cream. I ate I cream. I bloody researcher Ice cream. But I am here now. I have written... Something. Just... Tell me what you guys think. Hopefully it isn't too bad. Considering that it is about draft number million. **

**Anyway, thank you observationoftrifles for sticking with me through every chapter thus far.**

**I love you all for reading.**

** For my MorMor with a's. Because, well you're MorMor with a's.**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

John awoke the next morning, feeling completely rested and happier than he had been the entire month. He snuggled closer to Sherlock and couldn't resist softly kissing his thick, dark curls. Sherlock moaned softly. John smiled automatically, he felt fulfilled. "Sh'lock, we shou'd get up, get some stuff done." Sherlock just lazily opened one eye: "Why?"

John wanted to answer that, he really did, but it was Saturday. He didn't have to go to work. Still they couldn't just spend the whole day in bed, could they ? Instead of trying to decide, he simply leaned over and kissed Sherlock on those very soft lips, with that impossibly pronounced cupid's bow. He could spend hours kissing those lips.

He smiled against Sherlock's lips, "I can't see why, love. Let's just stay here." He was grinning as he lowered his head onto his boyfriend's chest. He never thought he'd have a boyfriend. He absolutely loved the idea, somehow it just felt right.

Then a shrill sound interrupted their utopia. John leaned over, while wondering if it was actually possible for a phone to ring cheekily.

Half an hour later they were both in a cab, heading towards an ice cream shop, of all places. Apparently the owner had been murdered in some form of robbery and the police were at wits end. There were no signs of forced entry and every penny was missing from the shop.

D.I. Lestrade was waiting to let them in. The moment Sherlock stepped into the shop and saw the pattern of the tiles, he knew exactly what happened.

He almost smiled at the pure elegance: "Right, the killer is still here, fairly obvious. Though I don't know why you are waiting to arrest him. The murder was unintended and clearly the purpose was not to steal the money."

John stuttered: "Sherlock..." Sherlock fixed John with a puzzled stare: "Explain ?" John just nodded.

"Those tiles over there," he said, pointing at the green linoleum tiles at the back half of the airy store: "they are cleaner than the rest of the store, recently installed. You can see that those shelves over there are sagging, but they don't have a lot of equipment on them, which means they were recently cleared. So the owner was keen for more storage space, though there is not much expansion potential, this is an old part of town, so there should be a basement, probably built over in a renovation. Until-" Sherlock paused and walked over to few tiles in the corner, kneeling down and knocking on a few, moments later he seemed to find what he was looking for. To John's astonishment he lifted a small portion of one tile, revealing a latch: "-he recently reopened a passage for extra storage. Causing him to have to install new floors. Now, before you go find the killer, you may be interested to know that he wasn't after the money. That was a cover up."

Sherlock took in the puzzled stares, oh how dull it must be in their minds. Then his eyes met John's. Well, perhaps not all of them are dull, he could see that there was a theory behind those sky blue eyes. He decided instantly, he was in love. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

He walked over, stopping next to one of the ice cream containers and subtly scooping some ice cream into a cone. A few people noticed, but they dismissed it as some random act of a genius. When you worked with Sherlock Holmes you learnt to save all questions unless they were an absolute necessity.

Throwing his unoccupied arm over John's shoulders he asked, completely nonchalantly: "Why do you think the money is a cover up, love ?" He added the last word in an act of pure bravery. John was dumbstruck by the sudden show of affection, but he did have an idea: "Well, I suppose, it is an ice-cream shop, so I mean they'd have lots of kids paying with coins. Only there aren't any coins in the register. So the killer must have taken them. Only what type of robber would actually take coins when there were probably hundreds of dollars. You could see that lever thing that keeps the money in place is almost at the top, so lots of notes then." To be honest, John even surprised himself with the last bit.

Sherlock broke into the largest girn John had ever seen: "Exactly." And with that he mischeovously dipped his finger in the ice cream cone and softly ran it over John's lips, before pushing him against the wall and softly placing his lips over those of his doctor. Kissing him, not caring that the entire Scotland Yard was waiting for him to finish their case. It was, quite literally, their sweetest kiss to date.

Pulling away he quickly gasped in Lestrade's general direction: "Killer is in the basement, he was from a rival ice-cream shop wanting the flacvour of this," he held up the cone in his hand: "very delicious, vanilla ice cream. He thought the owner was gone when he sneaked up from the basement. He just wanted to knock him out, the killing was unintentional. He kept the recipes in that book over there, one is missing," he pointed to a small completely innocent looking book on the table: "He didn't think the police would show up so quickly. He didn't count on the passersby hearing a scream. When he heard the sirens, he panicked and hid in the basement, where he was hiding all day. Text me when you're doing your reports, I'll explain the rest." He had said this all in approximately one breath.

He then proceeded to help John to consume the ice-cream cone as if they were the only two people in the world.

And in a way, they were. John and Sherlock, in a universe of their very own, consisting of deductions and a love that could consume worlds. Not to mention ice cream.


	15. Chapter 14

_Hi guys. I know, I know, I'm very late with this chapter. The only excuse I have is that this was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of the hardest things I have ever had to write. So uhm, I'm sorry if you hate it, I am not very keen on genderbend fic's._

_*Very, very minor spoiler alert for The Empty Hearse in the next paragraph. Seriously, I don't even know if you could consider it a spoiler.*_

_Ok, allow me to fangirl for a moment here. OH MY STARS, HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN THE NEW EPISODE? I DIED. AAAAAAAHHHHH. THE SHEER LEVEL OF AWESOMENESS WAS TOO MUCH TO COMPREHEND. I watched it three times, consecutively. Guys: "I prefer my doctor's clean shaven."_

_The last sentence was inspired by the song "Heaven" from ISO_

_Anyhoo, without my MorMor with a's, this would probably be an incoherent mess. Thank you sweetie._

_This is day 14: Genderbend._

_Until a bit later today, all my love._

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The next few months are some of the happiest John and Sherlock has ever experienced. They go about their routine; solving cases, catching murderers and generally being utterly in love. The members of Scotland Yard had learnt to keep a wide girth around the couple when Sherlock has made a particularly impressive deduction, John in turn had learnt that he finds it damn near impossible to keep his hands of Sherlock when he is making a very clever deduction.

On a particularly dreary and rainy Monday morning, the two woke up almost simultaneously- a very rare occurrence. John smiled at Sherlock's sleep mussed curls and rolled over, burying his face in the side of Sherlock's warm sweatshirt. He wants to go right back to sleep, but the detective had other ideas. "John," he said with a mischievous sparkle to his voice: "you know Mrs. Hudson is out for the day. And I observe that we don't have anything to do, seeing as it's your day of." With a completely uncharacteristic grin, he rolled John onto his back and positioned himself over his doctor. He bent down and softly kissed John, feeling John's eyelashes flutter softly against his own and nipping playfully at John's lower lip. Sherlock is determined to fully wake him up.

This did the trick. John is wide awake as he arches up to meet Sherlock's surprisingly cool lips. He runs his fingers around the detective's neck and down his back, fully intending to start lifting the edges of his boyfriend's shirt when an impossibly loud hammering on the door demands their attention.

Rolling his eyes in annoyance he pushed Sherlock of him and got up with a loud sigh. He grabbed Sherlock's robe as he headed for the door, shouting down at the impatient caller: "Yes alright, I'm coming!" The moment he had managed to fumble the door open, he caught a glimpse of a figure. He felt a stab of sharp pain in his neck and then the world grew hazy. He felt a spicy liquid slipping down his throat and was aware of being very uncomfortable, before the world disappeared.

When John woke, he was aware of something feeling distinctly wrong. His mind felt groggy and he had trouble focusing on anything as the world swam into view. The only clear thought in his mind was Sherlock. As he moved he was reminded of the pain in his very stiff feeling neck. He needed to find Sherlock. He needed to make sure Sherlock was safe.

He tried standing, but something still didn't feel right, how could it be possible for his feet to feel smaller? His eyes were slowly beginning to gain focus when he heard a high pitched scream from Sherlock's bedroom. For the first time he took stock of his surroundings. He was in the bathroom and, to his utter dismay, he discovered that the door was locked. He tried to think, but it was like trying to see through murky water. As he stood there, trying to pierce the veil that was his thoughts, he let his head fall sideways and saw the short blond woman with the pixie cut in the mirror do the exact same thing. As he ran his hands over his body, he was hit by the sharpest sense of disillusionment he had ever felt.

He was acutely aware of one fact: the body he occupied was no longer male. He didn't know how this was possible, but it made it even more imperative to find Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" He winced at his voice. It sounded feminine and it reminded him of someone he couldn't quite place. In any case, he had much more pressing concerns. "Sherlock, dammit!" He was desperately trying to keep the ache of panic from consuming him when he heard something fumbling by the door. He stood back and it swung open almost immediately, the sight that met John would most likely stay with him for the rest of his days.

He was certain the very tall and thin woman with her soft shoulder length brown curls and razor sharp cheekbones was Sherlock. He was too shocked to say anything, but he was visited by the very guilty thought that Sherlock was very, very sexy. They both just stood like that, staring wide eyed at each other, for a full minute.

"John," John registered with amusement that Sherlock's voice hadn't lost its haughty quality. He just listened as the detective continued: "as far as I can tell this was the work of some enemy of a sort, the serum seems to have temporarily rewritten our DNA, with the only purpose of changing our gender. The technology was stolen from Mycroft's labs. He assures me it won't last more than a few hours. I have also found and disabled all the camera's installed by the this person, except," he paused and walked over to a corner of the bathtub and plucked a small black object from the ceiling, promptly stepping on it with one high heeled foot.

Something still wasn't right and then it hit him, squarely between the eyes. He felt his voice shake slightly as he asked: "Sherlock, who, who dressed us?" He was looking down, studying his own soft purple dress and grey pumps and his boyfriend's tight-fitting black dress and matching stilettos. There is a sentence you don't think often, John thought with droll amusement. My boyfriend's tight fitting black dress.

Sherlock paused and pursed his lips. "John, this person installed camera's in our home and fed us a serum that would temporarily change our gender, do you really think he would draw the line at dressing us?"

"Sherlock," he tried again. "What John?" He smiled; how the detective managed to still have the same bite in his new voice was beyond John. John had always harboured a suspicion that Sherlock secretly practised his voice to add that fear-inducing quality. Apparently not, though. He couldn't keep a smile of his face as he said: "I think you look very pretty." He was rewarded by, for the first time ever, seeing a blush creep over Sherlock's face. Well not exactly Sherlock's face, but he would take it.

In the end Mycroft's people caught their perverted stalker and the serum wore off in a couple of hours, as promised.

The couple spent the first hour of that time very stiffly sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Sherlock hugging their union jack pillow and John simply staring at the floor. They had changed out of the dresses and were both wearing old t-shirts and sweat pants. It was the most uncomfortable they had ever felt together, but eventually Sherlock, desperately seeking comfort looked at John with such a helpless expression that John couldn't do anything but embrace his detective. Eventually they dosed of in each other's arms and when they awoke, all was right again.

When looking back, John would describe the experience as a dream they had, in which they were both awake.


	16. Chapter 15

Hey again guys. This is day 15: Wearing a different clothing style. Thank you all for the overwhelming support. It means the world.

I actually made it halfway ! So I'm just gonna add another disclaimer.

Obviously (Alan Rickman voice). If you recognise it, it isn't mine. I don't own the characters etc.

Dearest Observationoftrifles, I accept your challenge, expect it somewhere in the next 15 days.

For MorMor with a's. Horses, finally.

Until tomorrow, all my love...

* * *

**Chapter 15**

"Remind me why we are doing this again?" John just sighed, this was perhaps the fifth time Sherlock had asked him why they were heading to the English countryside for a holiday. "Sherlock," John said, trying his best to keep his voice level: "it will be good for us to get away, this is a really nice place and the guy owes you a favour, so we're not even paying. There is a ton of stuff to do, we could go swimming or-" Sherlock shot John a venomous look before exclaiming in what was truly his most annoying voice: "Bored!"

The rest of the car ride had good parts and bad parts: there was a very nice hour somewhere in the middle where Sherlock had managed to stretch his long gangly legs over John's lap and had fallen asleep, this did of course complicate driving a bit, but it was a quiet road and John would be lying if he said wasn't enjoying it. Then there was a particularly bad part near the end where Sherlock started deducing truly horrific facts about the previous users and their various actions in the rental car they were driving in.

Eventually though, they reached their destination, a beautiful mansion and country club with tennis courts, vast manicured and lawns and much to John's annoyance, stables.

As they were ushered in by the friendly middle-aged owner, John saw Sherlock purse his lips at the friendly banter. He ignored his stubborn boyfriend and gave the other man his full attention. "Yes and as I was saying, loads of activities; you are more than welcome to use any of the facilities. Full heated pool, towels available of course. Lovely golf course, tennis courts, horse riding-" John was a little shocked to hear Sherlock interrupt: "Really?"

John frowned at him, he seemed almost, gleeful.

Sherlock realised his mistake: "I mean, really?" He repeated in a slightly calmer voice. The owner just smiled: "Yes of course, just ask at the counter an hour before you wish to depart and they will be more than happy to supply you with the necessary gear and ready horses for you." Sherlock's eyes were positively dancing.

John didn't pay much attention, Sherlock couldn't possibly love horses. It was so completely uncharacteristic. Which is why John was fairly floored when, after they were shown to their room and left to settle in, Sherlock grabbed his waist and spun him around kissing him with unbridled excitement. "Horses, John, they have horses!" John just frowned, because he couldn't decide if this was actual excitement or one of Sherlock's tricks. It had to be a trick, Sherlock must have somehow deduced his fear of horses and was doing this as revenge for the holiday.

"Sherlock, no." To John's dismay, Sherlock did look genuinely baffled. "What is it John ?" John grimaced: "I don't do horses, love." Sherlock smiled rather hopefully: "I have always loved horses, John. When I was little, well my parents weren't around all that much. And Mycroft, he was so much older than me. I spent hours with our horses: riding them, grooming them..." His voice trailed of as he saw John staring at him, wide-eyed.

"Sherlock, I am not getting on a horse. You are more than welcome to go without me. I have been afraid of those things my entire life and I do not intend to stop now." His voice was the epitome of steely determination. Sherlock just pursed his lips and picked up an apple from the fruit bowl, tossing it nonchalantly from hand to hand. This was not over.

The following morning, John woke to find Sherlock already gone. He got up quickly, wanting to do something to make up to Sherlock for the previous day. Maybe he could just watch him ride. He reached over to the suitcase and was severely puzzled to find it empty. Surely Sherlock hadn't unpacked.

Nonetheless, he walked over to the wardrobe and upon opening it he had to take a minute to comprehend the contents.

There was one set of clothes: a white cotton shirt, narrow black pants made of some sort of fabric with the ability to stretch and long, black riding boots. Sighing, he opened the bathroom door and slipped into the shower. He knew he had no choice, he had to wear the riding gear. That didn't mean he had to ride.

As he sat on the bed, fully dressed and fastening the final clips on his boots, the door opened to reveal Sherlock.

John was fully intending to ignore him, but the site of his boyfriend in full riding gear actually made his breath catch. He felt himself blushing as he took it all in. The slim frame in the white cotton shirt, contrasting sharply with his dark curls. Black pants that were most certainly moulded over his legs. Knee high leather riding boots. Black riding crop hanging loosely in one hand, causing John to go an even deeper shade of red. He swallowed and wet his lips, wanting to simultaneously rip the clothes of and keep them on Sherlock forever.

Sherlock dropped to his knees beside John, looking at him with eyes that seemed unnaturally blue against the monochromatic gear. "John, you are the love of my life. Would you please do this one thing for me. Please?" John was powerless. He just nodded.

Half an hour later, John was standing next to a very big chestnut mare called, quite reassuringly, Angel. Sherlock had an even bigger black stallion he called Martin. It didn't quite seem to fit the horse, but the owner explained that he named the horse after his son, who had died in a plane crash. John offered his condolences as he patted Angel very gingerly.

Ten minutes later John was trying to copy Sherlock's effortless grace as he swung into the saddle. He failed miserably, having to make several attempts at getting his one leg over the saddle and hovering awkwardly for a few seconds with only one foot in a stirrup.

When they were finally underway, Sherlock having coached John in the basics, John had to admit that it wasn't half bad. Just strolling calmly over the grass, fresh morning breeze playing with his hair. He also had to admit that it was very convenient that Sherlock's stallion had a faster gait, it definitely improved the view in front of John.

He was just settling down a bit, when Sherlock spun around with a mischievous grin. "Let's speed things up a bit, John." John didn't have time to protest, Sherlock spurred his horse into an easy canter. Unfortunately, for John's horse to keep up, this meant a full on race-horse gallop. Caught unaware, John yanked the reins back. This was the worst thing John could have possibly done, the horse reared and John, managing to cling on by some miracle, felt full on panic overtake him as Angel sped towards the fence at the opposite end of the property.

In the coming years, John would still replay the following moments in his mind to convince himself of their authenticity.

He was vaguely aware of Sherlock spinning his horse around and galloping to John's side. He was, much less vaguely, aware of Sherlock leaning over mid-gallop and in one fluid motion looping his arm through Martin's reins while grabbing Angel's reins and swinging himself out of his own saddle and over the other horse, landing swiftly in front of John. He was still somehow hanging onto both horses' reins and his riding crop. He let his stallion run free and used both hands to control the horse Sherlock and John were now sharing.

"Hold on to me," he shouted as they rapidly approached the impossibly tall fence. John didn't need to be told twice, he swung his arms around his boyfriend's waist, relinquishing his hold on the reins.

He was aware of a swooping sensation as he buried his head in Sherlock's back and they cleared the fence. Sherlock managed to calm the horse within the next few minutes, slowing her to a walk.

John just sat there, too shocked to talk, still hanging on to Sherlock for dear life, despite the reduced speed. It was perhaps at that moment that John felt not only utterly awe struck, but he also realised that for all the reasons Sherlock needed him, he, Doctor John Watson, needed Sherlock in infinitely more ways.

Sherlock was the one who challenged him.

Sherlock was the one who saved him.

Sherlock was the one.


	17. Chapter 16

_Hey guys, this is day 16: morning routines. It is a rather silly little chapter, please stay with me :)_

_Firstly, nicely done if you caught my two Cabin Pressure and one Doctor Who references yesterday. :D_

_I love you guys for reading !_

_As usual for my MorMor with a's._

_All my love, until tomorrow._

* * *

**Chapter 16**

After their truly momentous vacation, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were finally beginning to settle into some form of a routine as a couple at 221B, well as much a routine manageable when you spend half your time chasing criminals over the rooftops of London.

They had more or less sorted out who cared for Gladstone (John) and of course, who Gladstone cared for (Sherlock) and were all together finding a comfortable rhythm.

This rhythm included, but was not limited to, their morning routines.

John was one of the rare 13% of humanity that could actually be considered a true naturally born morning person. He had always loved that about himself, he would spend that time quietly walking around the flat, relishing the feeling of being alone in the presence of others.

Sherlock on the other hand usually became so engrossed in what he was doing that he simply forgot about sleep until he would fall in to the bed for an hour or so in the early morning. Sleeping in a bit longer than John, but definitely not long enough.

John had a carefully formulated theory that the detective was simply too stubborn to let sleep bore him for more than the absolute bare minimum of necessary time.

There were of course the nights that some of the extra curricular activities of the couple would wear Sherlock down and he and John would snuggle a bit in the morning, until they were both awake and could then go about their routines together.

Knowing Sherlock's tendency towards glamour, well Sherlock insists on referring to it as being a person who just happened to attract drama, John knew that Sherlock loved the drama. And the glamour. One does not wear a coat like that to be inconspicuous. Well, John would have assumed that with this quirk Sherlock would spend hours in front of the mirror each morning, dressing carefully and undressing only when he fell into bed, or John pushed him onto bed.

This was not the case. Sherlock spent most of his time in varying states of undress. Only donning his crisp suits and coat when absolutely necessary to remove his sheets or dressing gown. And sometimes not even then. John very clearly remembers Sherlock deciding to keep those sheets, and only those sheets, on a few years ago at a very high profile location.

John chalked the detective's unique clothes management system up to his passion for extremes. There was no middle ground for the world's only consulting detective. It was lavish or not at all. It was 'I'm going to fake my death by jumping of a roof and disappear for three years without telling my best friend' or nothing.

So John followed his morning routine, getting up at six o'clock sharply every morning. Having some quality alone time. Then going to the bathroom; showering, brushing his teeth, getting dressed. Just in time to find that his love had attempted to rise and had promptly fallen asleep on some sort of experiment. He would then cover the curled up ball of gangly limbs in a blanket and wait for his boyfriend to wake up before persuading him to eat some breakfast.

Only then would the detective finally go into his bedroom to fetch his clothes and go about his very short ten minute bathroom routine, darting into the shower and emerging still slightly wet.

Yet, somehow though, in their almost four months together now, they never ended up brushing teeth together. It was just some strange trick of faith and of course neither man realised it, until it was completely too late. Too late for John in any case.

The particular morning in question was relatively normal and John emerged from the bathroom to find Sherlock unfurling himself from the kitchen chair and fumbling his way to the bathroom.

Something was different this morning, something wanted to break the rhythm.

Just as Sherlock had his royal blue toothbrush in his mouth, John called him. A bit annoyed, he opened the bathroom door and frowned at the doctor, toothbrush still in one hand.

John had simply called Sherlock to find out if he would like some lemon juice in his tea. All thoughts of tea vanished in his mind as he took in Sherlock. Sherlock who was, for some reason, holding not his own red toothbrush. He was holding John's shocking blue one.

John tried very hard to stay calm: "Sherlock, what are you doing with my toothbrush?"

The slightly muffled reply confirmed John's fears: "Uthing itth."

Sherlock paused for a moment and darted into the bathroom, emerging toothbrush free a few seconds later: "I said I'm using it. Why?"

John Hamish Watson did not share his toothbrush. He simply explained to the detective in clear, simple terms that Sherlock would under no circumstances use the new toothbrush that he would be buying for himself.

Sherlock realised that logically they had done much worse than use the same toothbrush. He also, in a rather perceptive moment, realised that the last time he had forced John to face a phobia, his doctor had been almost trampled by horses. Sherlock decided to leave the matter and in a moment so rare John was tempted to record it, Sherlock agreed with John.

John Hamish Watson would share his very soul with Sherlock, the undisputed love of his life. He would split his heart in two and readily give Sherlock both halves. He would not, however, share his toothbrush, because dammit, there was a line.


	18. Chapter 17

Hey_ guys. I seem to have some kind of mental block against publishing these on time. So there will be two chapters again today. This is day 17: spooning. l love each and every one for reading. Clicking the refresh button on my email has actually become a hobby, so please, please review._

_For mormor with a's. _

_All my love._

* * *

**Chapter 17**

The couple was packed and ready. Where they were headed was to some remote village John couldn't even bother to memorise the name of. They were going to buy Sherlock a new coat.

You see, Sherlock habitually ruins at least one of John's jumpers per week, John is entitled to the same right on Sherlock's clothes, even though he never abuses said right. There are, however, three sacred items: John's oatmeal jumper and Sherlock's coat and scarf.

John had recently spilled some tea on the coat. This may have been fine had he not grabbed the tiny spray can of stain-remover he had recently purchased for just such an occasion. This was all good and well until he realised, just a split second too late, that he had accidentally grabbed the can of white spray paint placed next to the similar looking stain remover by John himself. Admittedly not his finest idea.

Needless to say, Sherlock was quite upset to come back from the quick visit to Mrs. Hudson downstairs to find that John had vandalised his coat.

So now they were on their way down the stairs of 221B to a car that Mycroft had sent. Sherlock refused at first, but after the detective had truly scarred John with his deductions from the last rental car they were in, John told him that he would ride in Mycroft's car or go without the very expensive coat that had to be personally collected from a tiny specialist taylor's shop in some obscure little village.

The drive was surprisingly uneventful for the first hour or so. Mainly because Sherlock had fallen asleep moments after they pulled away. Eventually Sherlock woke up though and then he became bored within seconds. Very bored.

He couldn't read for fear of getting car sick. It was a quiet road and the car was spotless so there was nothing to deduce. He wasn't really scared of the boredom enduring; he was, after all, sitting next to John. He could think of a few ways to entertain himself. He started to gently nibble John's earlobe...

In general Sherlock was trying his best to be as provocative as possible, it was ever so entertaining watching John get flustered.

John knew Sherlock was just trying to entertain himself. He knew he shouldn't get worked up and breathless. He knew he shouldn't indulge Sherlock.

There was one problem with this approach. Sherlock was wearing jeans. The one clothing choice that made him truly even more irresistible. His resolve was already starting to weaken and by the time Sherlock stretched in the front seat, his loose shirt revealing a thin line of alabaster skin above the dark denim, John couldn't even spell the word "resolve".

Sherlock Holmes owned one pair of jeans and wore them strictly on long roadtrips. Or if John asked really nicely. He knew what this item of clothing was doing to his doctor.

As Sherlock lifted his fingers and slowly started ghosting them over John's neck, John could hardly remember what a car was, not to mention how to drive one. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he knew that he needed to stop this car. Now.

As calmly as he could with his trembling hands he pulled the car over, stopping by the side of an empty field with an old abandoned building at the far reaches, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers.

He opened his door and got out, taking the keys with him. He walked over to the boot and took out the blanket he had stored there. At precisely that moment Sherlock joined him and ran a hand over his cheek, John may have actually trembled when his love started speaking: "Why are we stopping, John ?"

John forced himself to be calm. He didn't know why Sherlock in jeans literally made him weak at the knees, but it damn well did. "We are having dinner. We need a break and I packed a picnic. To apologise for your coat, again." He closed the boot flap, taking the basket and blanket to the middle of the field.

This picnic may have been the most romantic experience John had ever had. He sat cross-legged with Sherlock calmly resting his head on John's lap. John fed Sherlock and as a result he completely forgot to eat himself, in any case, he didn't know how he could possibly eat with the state of the butterflies in his stomach.

Something about this trip in particular and the field where they were sitting, made the last six months with Sherlock seem surreal. He had spent so many years dreaming about being with this brilliant, gorgeous and wonderful man. Now he could just reach out and touch him anytime he wanted to. He loved Sherlock so much, it was like an actual physical ache in chest.

When John saw the tears in Sherlock's eyes, he realised that he was talking out loud. He felt tears glistening his own eyes as he leaned down and kissed his boyfriend, their slightly wet cheeks barely touching. Sherlock softly returned the kiss and John couldn't help smiling against those perfect lips. He didn't ever want to leave this moment, but it was cold and the sun was setting. It would soon be freezing.

As they reached the car, John hunted around in his pocket for the keys. When he didn't feel them, he felt the cold dread settling in his stomach as he remembered placing them next to the blanket in the boot. Then Sherlock had stood in front of him with those jeans. Then Sherlock had touched his cheek. He grimaced as he walked around and tried to open the very much locked boot.

Sherlock had, naturally, already realised what was happening.

John Watson sometimes felt that he was living with a child. A child that could solve murders but do little else. This was not one of those times, because while John couldn't form a straight line of thoughts about their predicament, Sherlock began speaking.

"John, there is a gas station a few miles back, but it's already dark. We can go in the morning. Our phones are in the car, we don't have any other choice. Let's just take shelter in that building tonight."

Not being able to find any argument or better plan, John grabbed Sherlock's hand and together they found a slight indent in the ground that looked relatively comfortable.

He felt a bit ashamed of himself, he wasn't normally a person who forgot things. Or spray painted coats. He used to be more in control. John positioned himself with his back to the detective, not wanting to make eye contact.

Sherlock smiled sadly, knowing that John would feel better in the morning; so he simply spread the blanket over his doctor and lowered himself, wrapping his arms around John, while placing his mouth in John's hair and kissing him softly.

John didn't feel better in the morning. He felt better at that precise moment. He felt better, because no matter how badly he may mess things up, Sherlock would still be willing to spoon with him in a field in the middle of nowhere. It was a mutual arrangement, actually, because just sometimes Sherlock made mistakes too.

In the end, it wasn't the mistake they remembered, it was the night they spent under the stars. It was the fact that even though they made mistakes, there was always someone around to forgive them. Or help them forgive themselves. Or, you know, spend the night spooning in a field with them.


	19. Chapter 18

_Hello again guys. This day 18: Doing something together. I know, way to be specific right ? Anyhoo, I don't know why I like this chapter, but somehow I just do. _

_What's that you say ? The writer classified this as angst and we've had about a solid eight chapters of fluff ? Well, don't fear. _

_That is all I'm saying. _

_For you, the dearest MorMor with a's, who is literally half a world away and yet much, much nearer to my heart._

_All my love, until tomorrow..._

* * *

**Chapter 18**

John could tolerate a fair bit of chaos. He was dating Sherlock Holmes and if Mycroft Holmes was the British Government personified, Sherlock was chaos personified. John secretly loved that. He loved those moments his boyfriend made his heart skip a beat with an absolute phobia for consistency. The only two things Sherlock could and always would do consistently was love John and be dramatic.

So John dealt with the chaos of case files in every nook and cranny. He eventually got used to the body parts that migrated through the flat. He had mostly learnt to suppress his leftover instincts from the war for the sake of the small explosions that often decorated the soundwaves in 221B. Generally he liked to think that he adapted to the near-battlefield of his home.

The one thing he could not tolerate was when things were dirty. Sherlock was more than welcome to fling plates at walls, as long as they were washed plates. Things could be untidy, hell, he would perch among the stacks of documents on his chair, as long as the chair was dusted.

So when, one Sunday morning after waking up especially early and feeding Gladstone, he placed his mug on the kitchen table and noticed a small puff of dust arise from the wood where the porcelain base hit the table, something needed to be done. But this time Sherlock would help. John will have his love on his knees, scrubbing the floors and that was not a euphemism in any form... Well, not initially.

John had lived with Sherlock long enough to know how to, for lack of another word, handle him. If it was a genuine crisis, John could order him to just about anything. In any other circumstances, a logical bargain had to be offered. Sherlock had to feel that he was the one winning.

John thought that he had this well worked out, he knew just how to make Sherlock feel like he had the upper hand. In reality, Sherlock saw right through the entire thing, but he didn't care, because as long as he had John, nothing could be counted as losing.

So, that overcast morning, John marched back into the bedroom and took hold of Sherlock's hands, tugging him out of bed. This caused Sherlock, who usually needed some time to become fully functioning, to drape comically over John while his limbs slowly awakened from their paralysed state. He looked rather like a oversized rag-doll.

Eventually, a bargain was struck in which Sherlock would spend the day cleaning the apartment with John and John would finally draw some of Sherlock's own blood for experiments the detective had in mind. John figured that at some point Sherlock would run out of patience (yes he had a tiny bit in reserve for important occasions) and do it anyway. This way at least he could make sure it was a harmless blood withdrawal and not a case of blood poisoning.

Eventually it came to pass that Sherlock had donned the only clothes he owned that would be remotely suitable for cleaning: a white t-shirt he purchased for a case and the retired pair of jeans he wore about a month ago for an entire night in a field.

John had no idea how he resisted Sherlock in a very see through white t-shirt and dark denim, but somehow he preserved (after breathing deeply for quite a few minutes) and not ten seconds later, John was polishing the fireplace with such vigour it could be used as an impromptu mirror afterwards.

During those few hours they spent cleaning; Sherlock felt a chemical cleaner on his hands once and immediately begged John for another pair of gloves. This was after he had given a three minute speech on how Sherlock Holmes does not allow anything yellow or plastic to act as any form of garment on his person. Ever. This was especially ironic because Sherlock spent hours elbow deep in experiments with much more damaging chemicals than minty green window cleaner. John, however, just handed Sherlock the gloves while causing himself physical pain in his attempt to not look smug.

The detective also complained of boredom exactly forty two times. He tasted exactly nineteen types of cleaning product, honestly, John didn't even want to know. And set fire to one pillow ("But John, I was just trying to reheat the wax to get it of"), before John finally decided that this was as clean as 221B was ever going to get.

At the end of the day John had a horrible headache, so he just cuddled next to Sherlock, who then proceeded to make very good use of plastic gloves, for someone who claims to never wear them.


	20. Chapter 19

_Hey guys. I am working towards something with this fic, so it's going to be a bit less like individual Johnlock essays and a lot more to be continued-ish._

_I would like to apologise to observationoftrifles, who said that the fluffy bits I had been writing was helping her to calm down before the final eisode of Sherlock. I sincerely wish I hadn't been planning this to be angsty. I'm sorry dear. Maybe I'll write some separate fluffy pieces._

_I don't know about you guys, but I am going bloody crazy waiting for the new episode._

_Also, I'm hardly a doctor. So forgive any technical mistakes I make here or in future chapters. I do try to research as thoroughly as possible._

_MorMor with a's. As always. For you._

_All my love, 'til tomorrow._

This is day 19: In formal wear.

* * *

**Chapter 19**

They were late. Very, very late. They were on their way to a fundraiser that Mycroft had organised for an equine charity. Sherlock would never have gone to any formal event where he would be required to chat to people, especially if his brother was in attendance, but Mycroft had uttered the magic word: "horses".

So here they were a few weeks later, John in a rented tuxedo and Sherlock in one he happened to own. Of course Sherlock Holmes just happened to own a tuxedo.

John insisted that it wasn't his fault that Sherlock looked so dashing in that tuxedo that he was immediately overcome with the need to see it in a crumpled heap on the floor. Eventually though, they both managed to make it of the door with all their clothes on.

John thought he had been in love before, but as he glanced over to his fiance, the ache in every fibre of his body informed him that he had been wrong. This, this he felt now was love. He had to force himself to not openly gape at Sherlock. How could this divine person want to be tethered to someone as plain as himself. He was often plagued by thoughts like this, but they were decreasing as he realised that the detective truly was going to stay. Somehow this brilliant man needed him too.

As they got into the cab, Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from wandering to John. Every day that the doctor didn't run away screaming in the opposite direction amazed him. He did not know how this wonderful man, this man who knew so much more and was infinitely more genius than Sherlock could ever hope to be, remained so steadfast by his side. It was only lately that he was beginning to realise how he was clever in all the ways that didn't matter and an ignorant fool in those that did. But somehow John was teaching him. He had walked into his life and had helped Sherlock to take down the armour with which he protected himself against words like "freak" and "heartless". John had taken that armour down and settled himself in its place. How will he ever show John the true expanse of his gratitude. Of his love?

The two sat close together, each musing over his love for the other. Each silently thanking whatever it was that finally brought them together. Each remembering how the man he loved had saved him in every way.

When the cab arrived, they disembarked and as they walked up the stairs neither John nor Sherlock noticed the venue. They couldn't keep their eyes of each other.

There is some obscure magic surrounding his Sherlock in a tuxedo, decided John. Sherlock's thought were in much the same direction, except he was trying to scientifically explain this phenomenon.

Perhaps it was the timeless quality of evening dress; that mystical feeling that made it seem like a single moment could stretch for ages. Or perhaps it was a sentiment not meant to be caught in a web of words. Perhaps it was meant to be undefined.

That evening Sherlock didn't once complain of boredom, granted he wasn't forced to talk to anyone except John, so he could hardly be bored. Mycroft had simply greeted the them and left them to their own devices. He knew his brother and he was pretty sure the doctor was so wrapped around his brother's little finger, absolutely no good would come from forcing them to mingle.

They stood quietly whispering to each other in a forgotten corner. John didn't think he would ever need to speak to anyone else again. Sherlock had known this for years. Being surrounded by people they didn't know made it feel like it was just the two of them against the world. Sherlock whispered deductions about the other guests in John's ear. John loved when Sherlock was like this. He knew that, for once, the detective was not showing of. He was simply showing John the world through his eyes. And it was in these glimpses that John understood more than ever. It was these glimpses that made him feel fiercely protective of his Sherlock, who was deceptively delicate. It was through these glimpses that the two men shared their souls.

When the food was served, John led his love over to the buffet table, half empty glass of champagne in his hand. He was seriously contemplating putting the drink down, it seemed it was affecting him much more that he'd expect. The colours in the room seemed a bit brighter and he had a vague feeling that there was something lurking just outside of his peripheral vision. This was all fine, he was rather preoccupied with ghosting his fingers over Sherlock's forehead to sweep a stubborn curl away.

When a harassed looking chef swooped out of the kitchen door and glanced around, he hardly noticed that it wasn't very professional of her to quickly hand him a steaming hot serving dish with two dishcloths to protect his hands, he hardly even heard her profuse apology as she promised to return in less than a moment.

In fact John was having trouble focusing on anything at all. He frowned, his brain couldn't quite register why there was suddenly two Sherlock's with a curl that needed to be tucked away. A sharp stab of pain at the back of his eyes took all of his attention and he struggled to keep his grip on the dish. This struggle, however, was completely lost when he saw a small hedgehog crawling out from between the pieces of pasta.

He lost his grip and frantically dove down in a somewhat slurred movement to catch the ceramic dish. He registered the drops of blood on his palm with mild surprise. Everything was slightly blurred and reality was slipping away.

He was aware of Sherlock's comforting presence as he disappeared; a melody of inexplicable images dancing in front of his eyes.

He woke up in the familiar bed he shared with Sherlock. His hands were bandaged and very stiff. He turned his head and saw the detective sitting beside him, his head rested against the headboard and his knees drawn to his chest. He immediately noticed John's movement.

"John," his voice was softer than John would've ever thought possible: "I think you overdid the champagne a bit dear."

No, that wasn't right, that wasn't how John felt when he was drunk. He hardly remembered anything, but he distinctly knew that what he experienced was not the effect of alcohol.

John was a doctor. He recognised his symptoms. He was starting to recall the headaches, the bit of double vision he had been experiencing for weeks. At the time he had blamed it on his increasing age. Middle-age did not place hedgehogs in pasta, though.

He could be wrong, he very much hoped he was. Still, he couldn't take chances. He had seen too many dismissive patients waiting until it was too late.

He steeled himself and lifted his chin, staring into those stormy eyes that kept him anchored, saying a sentence that could only have scared him more if it were about Sherlock and not himself. "Sherlock, I think I need to see a neurologist."

**_To be continued..._**


	21. Chapter 20

_Hey guys. Sorry, I know it's late again. This chapter is a bit different than usual, please let me know what you think._

_Thank you for all the amazing support. _

_As always, for my MorMor with a's. _

_This is day 20: Dancing. It is a bit shorter than I would prefer, but I didn't want to drag it out. The song I used to write this is the one Sherlock composed in the Sign of Three. I actually danced to it, alone in my room so that I could write this. That is all I'm ever going to say about that. Ever. _

_Until a bit later today, all my love. _

_Oh and I don't know if this needs clarification, but the Italic parts are their movements and the sentences in Bold and Italic are Sherlock's thoughts, the things he wants to convey to John. I sort of tried to have that bit resemble a dance. I don't know if I succeeded._

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Sherlock looked at John, poorly concealed worry shining in his eyes. John's words hovered in the air: they stained it with worry, making it almost impossible to breath. At those words: 'I think I need to see a neurologist, Sherlock,' every colour in the world faded.

Sherlock knew he shouldn't be worried yet. He had always surrounded himself by logic and this panic he was feeling, this was illogical. But he heard the certainty in John's voice and felt it his heart, in the very deepest recesses of his soul, he knew too. He knew that something was wrong. It was a tangible cloud that hung over them.

Sherlock had never been this sure. As always, he saw the tiny threads as they came together in his mind, weaving a smothering blanket of evidence. He thought of the headaches that John complained of, the strange furrow in his brow as he stared into the distance, like he was seeing something inexplicable. He thought of all the tiny little individual signs and he saw them pulling together.

Sherlock knew that something was wrong, but for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes wished he didn't know. For the first time, he craved ignorance.

He tried to think of words to say, trying to arrange the 26 letters that enabled him to communicate in some pattern to tell John that everything he wanted him to know. It wouldn't be enough. There were no words to cover the raging storm of passion and love he wanted to convey. The words: 'No matter what,' seemed horribly feeble in the face of his devotion to this man.

So he simply stood and pulled John up. He would do what he always did when he couldn't find words. Usually this was to help him think. This was how he found words for himself. Today however, he was finding those words for someone else, the only other person he ever needed to find words for.

He picked up the IPod and chose one of his own violin recordings. He had composed it for John, but he was always too afraid to play it for him. The time never seemed right. This was his soul written in music. And now, on this precipice of uncertainty, now was the time to show it to his John.

He gently started the music, taking John's trembling hand.

The first notes of the music filled the flat, excited.

_He stepped forward, encircling John's waist with his arms._

_**Thank you for being with me, my love.**_

The music wavered, uncertain, for just a split second.

_He leaned his head down onto John's._

**_Never leave me._**

The music came back, stronger, one heavenly high pitched note stretched out a bit longer than the others.

_He led John slowly, forming one fluid motion._

**_I will never leave you._**

A few slow, subtle notes followed.

_He brushed his lips over John's cheek._

**_We are meant to be together._**

The soft pattern repeated once, with just a slight tremor of difference.

_He held John tighter, slowly and deliberately forming a perfect harmonic sequence._

**_I don't care if something is wrong._**

One liquid note slid lower than the rest. Lingering.

_He pulled John with him as he retreated toward the gleaming city lights shining through the window._

**_We will face it together._**

The music swooped higher in two languid beats.

_He spun John, gently pulling him the tiniest bit closer as the turned._

**_When I'm with you, I don't feel broken._**

The music floated even higher.

_He finished the turn, pausing a moment with John in his arms._

**_You will be fine, because I need you to be._**

The high notes reached their climax leaving a sweet tang in the air.

_He leaned down, simply holding John._

**_I love you._**

Slowly the notes started gently sifting to the ground.

_He tightened his hold ever so slightly._

**_Forever and always._**

The final note was the lowest. It reached the ground and settled there, staying with them even as the song stopped playing.

_He placed his lips on John's._

**_No matter what._**

John understood. He heard every word in the music with complete clarity. He could hear Sherlock's soul in those notes. In those movements. He knew what Sherlock was showing him.

He couldn't have heard these words any more clearly if Sherlock had shouted them. They filled his heart: 'I will never leave you. We were meant to be together. I don't care if something is wrong. We will face it together. When I'm with you, I don't feel broken. You will be fine, because I need you to be. I love you. Forever and always. No matter what.

John felt the relief settle over him. This was his home. This was where he could handle anything, in the arms of his Sherlock.

And like that first time when they held hands, so many months ago, they didn't need words. The music spoke for them. A perfect harmony of John and Sherlock. The detective and the doctor. Two intertwined souls.


	22. Chapter 21

_Hey guys, sorry about being late. Again. I had some technical difficulties. Anyhoo, this is day 21: Cooking._

_Dear observationoftrifles, I am filling your prompt in this chapter. I hope you like it. _

_This is the official last piece of fluff. _

_Also, I am going to get back on schedule today, so expect a few more chapters. _

_As usual, for my MorMor with a's, who regularly keeps me listening to brilliant music, reading wonderful fanfic's, looking at amazing fanart and having scintillating conversations. _

_All my love (I am not going to say until when, I have decided that I am jinxing myself.)_

* * *

**Chapter 21**

When John woke up on the morning of his appointment with one of the best neurologists in London – Mycroft had arranged the consult on short notice- he was aware of immediately feeling nervous. It was three days since he had collapsed at the charity ball and nothing much had happened since the night that he and Sherlock had danced.

Well, not really nothing much. Maybe nothing much to any one not familiar with the inner mechanisms of 221B. Because if the outside world were to peer into 221B Baker Street, they would see a caring and attentive boyfriend, they would see said boyfriend cooking and keeping everything tidy. They would see him gently cover up his better half with blankets when he fell asleep in front of the telly. They would see a tall man with dark curls caring for a shorter one with blonde hair, nothing strange, to them.

In fact, the oddest thing they would see in those three days would be one little occurrence that morning. They would see the short man walk over resignedly to the tall one, carrying a razor in his bandaged hands. They would see the tall one chuckling a bit as he took in the surprisingly dense day old beard and the several nicks on his boyfriend's face. They would then see this man carefully being led into the bathroom and being perched on the edge of the tub. They would see the taller one shaving everything but a strip of hair right under the other man's nose.

And if they were to listen to the conversation they would hear something along these lines: "Sherlock, why are you leaving me a moustache?" John said as he peered into the mirror. Sherlock blushed a bit and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Tom Selleck." John just smiled, he had been forcing Sherlock to relax a bit by watching old reruns Magnum P.I., an unexpected side effect was that, although Sherlock would never admit it, he had developed a bit of a crush on Thomas Magnum and his moustache. John wasn't really bothered by this unexpected change in his appearance; he had always wanted to try growing a moustache. Grinning at his reflection, he found that he liked the look. After washing of the extra soap, he walked over to Sherlock and, almost teasingly, kissed him. Just as he was starting to push deeper, melting into the kiss, Sherlock stiffened and jerked back. John frowned: "What's wrong then love?" Sherlock pursed his lips and uttered what was probably the single most hilarious word he had ever said: "Tickles."

John burst into laughter, his boyfriend, the great Sherlock Holmes was _ticklish._

This irked Sherlock. He saw the slight glint of panic in John's eyes when a devilish grin spread across his face. John backpedalled quickly: "No Sherlock, whatever you're planning, just no-" He was interrupted as Sherlock tackled him to the ground and straddled his hips. The detective made use of the temporary chaos and plucked the razor from his boyfriend's hand. The moustache, which had a lifetime of approximately 3 minutes, died moments later.

The situation was so absurd that they both just sat there on the bathroom floor, laughing for several minutes. And John almost forgot that his entire life might change in half an hour at a doctor's appointment. Almost.

While this was the strangest thing any outsider would have seen, the true oddity was actually the previous morning.

It was on the morning after they had danced and fallen asleep in each other's arms. The morning after Sherlock had wordlessly told John everything. It was the morning after Sherlock's mute confession. On that morning there was a slight shift in those inner mechanisms of 221B.

To be completely honest, John would have thought that he would wake up to find Sherlock elbow deep in some experiment. He was pretty sure that after Sherlock had shown this much of his human side, he would retract a bit again. That was the usual way with Sherlock, two steps forward and one step back. Which is why, when he woke to the smell of scrambled eggs and slightly burnt toast, he was sure he was still dreaming.

When he had entered the kitchen that morning, he had to blink several times to check reality. He had seen this man in front of him jump from a galloping horse to another galloping horse. He had seen him commit, admittedly fake, suicide. He had visited his grave. He had seen him drag half the parliament out of the closet with a rope of pure insults. He had seen him prepared to take a possibly poisonous pill just to avoid boredom. He had been drugged countless times by the detective in front of him. Yet this is the first time Sherlock had actually managed to shock John. He had thought he was surprised those others events, but he knew now that that was not true surprise.

When you live with Sherlock, you learn to expect the unexpected; therefore you start to not expect the expected. Of course by that definition the unexpected becomes the expected, therefore turning the expected into the unexpected.

You learn to not be surprised when your boyfriend grabs your phone and throws it into the Thames (don't ask). What you absolutely never think you will ever see though, is to walk into the kitchen and see Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, cooking.

John just stood there, gaping. He tried to commit every detail of this scene to memory. He memorized the way the early dawn light made Sherlock's alabaster skin glow and how the slight heat from the stove had forced him to roll up his dressing gown sleeves to his elbows. He found himself smiling at the slight mustard smudge on Sherlock left cheek and how adorably his brow furrowed in concentration.

John knew that he shouldn't act in any way abnormally if he were to conserve this event. He simply walked over and softly kissed Sherlock's cheek, he was rewarded by a smile tugging at the corners of those perfect lips. He grabbed the paper, which was now mercifully being delivered to them again, and sat down at the kitchen table. He was only pretending t read though, because his mind was whirling. He didn't understand why Sherlock was doing this. He couldn't think of anything in the next ten minutes either.

When Sherlock placed the plates at the tale he was smiling tentatively.

John mused on it maybe being an apology for something. He couldn't for the life of him think what. For Sherlock to actually lower himself to the level of boredom he would have to endure while cooking, he would have to be cheat-.

John's eyes grew wide, surely it couldn't be.

He had to ask. He had to know.

He began carefully: "Sherlock, um, darling, I'm sorry for-" He coughed awkwardly. He didn't know what to ask. 'What the fuck did you do to warrant actually cooking food?' came to mind.

Sherlock just smiled: "You want to know why I cooked for you? Completely understandable of course, given my previous pattern of behaviour and this abrupt variation. I would like to put your mind at rest John. This is not an apology. This is, well, I just wanted to prove that, that we will be fine." He finished rather awkwardly; the haughty edge had dropped from his voice on the last sentence.

John smiled then, because he got it now, this wasn't an apology. It was a statement.

It went somewhere along the lines of: 'You see John? I can care for you too. Tomorrow we may find out that I need to care for you and I don't want you to worry about that too. I am here in any form you need. Now eat your slightly burnt toast. '


	23. Chapter 22

_Hey guys. I am back and happy to announce that, after my two-parter tomorrow, I will be back on schedule. _

_We are getting so close to the new episode, I can hardly contain myself. So very, very close. My mother actually offered to get me anti anxiety medication today and she wasn't even joking. It is that bad. _

_In the event that I do in fact by some miracle survive this episode, I will continue tomorrow. If not, make up your own ending to this. _

_Dedicated to my dear MorMor with a's._

_I'll see you all on the other side,_

_All my love._

* * *

**Chapter 22**

The cold leather of the slightly excessively decorated chair in the doctor's private exam room seemed intent on making John as uncomfortable as possible. Sherlock was seated in a similar chair next to him; their hands were hanging together, barely touching, between the chairs. This small form of contact was the thing that was keeping John sane as they waited for the doctor to finish examining the results of the scans and various other tests that John had been put through in the last five hours.

He was exhausted form worrying. The horrible emptiness of not knowing what was wrong with him was grating down on him. Yet he wanted to prolong it, because in the back of his mind he knew that this would be better than knowing that he couldn't be fixed. He was suspended in a grey cloud of ignorance and he didn't quite know if he wanted to emerge, if he didn't know what would be waiting on the outside.

* * *

Later when he tried to remember the words of the doctor in detail; all he recalled was a singular few sentences. They were imprinted into his memory like a glowing hot branding iron had seared them into the flesh of his memory.

He could still hear every single syllable as it echoed in his head. He was alone in a a hallway. He had to leave. And now he was trapped inside his own mind anyway.

* * *

"We have found that you have a very rare form of an inoperable brain aneurism. It is pressing down on certain parts of your brain, which is what is causing the headaches and hallucinations. The prognosis is nonexistent. There are patients that live their entire lies with this condition. Your hallucinations are small and far apart it is very likely that they will remain so. I can prescribe pain medication for the headaches. This aneurism may never burst or it may burst tomorrow. I am sorry Doctor Watson. There is nothing we can do."

Nothing we can do. Those four words should be removed from the English language. There was only pain in those words.

John couldn't help but see the irony, he had been worried about knowing too much and now, if possible, he felt like he knew even less than before. He had heard of patients with conditions like this, of course, but he could still not believe that he was one of them. He had felt himself thinking that there had to be some kind of mistake. This could not possibly be happening to him. These things happened to other people, they happened to someone's aunt who you had never met and to which you offered polite condolences. This was not something that would happen to him.

And yet he had watched the doctor show him the scans. He stared at the grey images from the angiogram. He saw his name printed on those images. He saw the slight abnormality marked with tiny yellow arrows. They were painfully real.

He had sensed rather than felt Sherlock's hand around his. It was this simple touch that had awoken him. Because he couldn't deny something that Sherlock believed. For every second in his life that mattered -every second which he had spent with Sherlock, in other words- the detective had always been his guide. He was, for a brief moment, tempted to think that this was just one of Sherlock's tricks. He was sure he would hear laughter in his ears any second. He could almost hear it; "Oh John, your face..."

When the thin and careful fingers trembled in his; that is when he knew. This was real. It wasn't some illusion or trick. He wouldn't be waking up tangled in Sherlock limbs any moment. This was really happening. Sherlock was barely staying composed.

He felt a surge of anger leap through his system. He tensed next to Sherlock. He wanted to launch himself at this imposing figure in the white labcoat that had just wrenched every bit of hope he had found, with Sherlock, away. Some distant reptilian part of his brain seized control. Standing so abruptly that Sherlock lurched forward in his chair a bit before he could detangle their hands, he grabbed the first thing he saw.

The ornate glass paperweight shattered into achingly beautiful shards as it hit the wall. For a moment John floated from his own body. He saw the room paused for a second in panoramic view. Glass shards scattered in suspension in the air. The look of pained and resigned sadness on the face of his boyfriend. The world snapped back into reality as he saw the room through his own eyes again and there was a moment of ear-splitting noise as the broken paperweight hit the floor in so many pieces.

John flew out of the room. He was fleeing out of shame and fear. He didn't run very far, after a route he could only remember snatches of he let himself collapse, boneless, against a wall in the first abandoned hallway he came across. The familiar smell of a hospital crowded his senses for the first time since med-school. He had stopped smelling this strange mix of hygiene and decay at some point. Like all doctors did. Maybe it was back because he was a patient now.

* * *

It seemed like hours later that he felt a familiar hand resting on his shoulder. In reality it had hardly been five minutes. Sherlock didn't say anything- he just lowered himself and settled next to John. John was disappointed in himself at his next words: "Sherlock, there must be something. Someone has to be able to operate." His tone was pleading.

The pity in those sparkling blue eyes as they gazed down on him hurt him more than anything. He looked down. He was utterly hopeless. He saw the colour fade from the world. He was digging his fingernails into his palms in an attempt to feel something. He didn't feel the need to get up anymore. If Sherlock pitied him, there was truly no hope.

"I could die at any moment. There is nothing I can do about it. I have no idea when it's coming. What use is there to keep on doing anything?" He saw a flame sparking in those eyes. He saw the passion gleaming there. He frowned; Sherlock looked like he had just solved a puzzle."

"Say that again John."

Now he was genuinely confused, surely even Sherlock had to realise that this wasn't the time or the place. He thought back over his words. **_I could die at any moment. There is nothing I can do about it. I have no idea when it's coming._** Something was bothering him. What was it about the words?

"John, pool."

That's it. The revelation hit him squarely between the eyes. He started laughing. It was so obvious.

He had thought this was a curse, he had thought that this was the worst possible punishment. It wasn't, though. He could die at any second, but he was John Watson. He ran the streets of London chasing after some of the most dangerous criminals of the century. He invaded a foreign country with the army. He had been shot, he had been drugged and tortured. He had been bound with explosives at that pool; that is what Sherlock wanted him to remember. And as always, he understood.

Yes he could die at any moment. His life was in constant danger. But that was nothing new. His life had been in constant danger in any case. This was just one more thing that upped the stakes a bit. And if there was one thing that John Watson craved like a drug, it was just that bit more danger.

This was nothing new, this was just him and Sherlock, in battle side by side, as they always would be. Just the two of them, against the world. Even if a tiny part of that world was now fighting from within. They were stronger that the world. They will win. And they will enjoy the fight.


	24. Chapter 23

_Hey guys! I survived. Barely, though. I was rendered incapable of any normal function more than once during that episode. _

_This is "day 23: Arguing". I will be back tomorrow with part two. For now, I am exhausted._

_I just want to give a shout out to the brilliant robingrayson2014, sweetie, you absolutely made my entire year with those reviews. _

_MorMor with a's, this is for you. As always. Because you are awesome. _

Oh and I may have forgotten to add that yesterday's challenge was "In battle side-by-side"

_All my love..._

* * *

**Chapter 23**

The cab ride from the hospital had a strangely electric atmosphere. John felt adrenaline coursing through his veins and his skin. He was dying, but right now all he felt was very much alive. He sat there, a pent up ball of energy, impatiently waiting to arrive at 221B. He walked as calmly as he could to the front door and up the stairs. As soon as the door to their flat was closed behind them he turned the key in the lock. It would not do to be disturbed at this particular moment in time.

John pushed Sherlock roughly against the door and, pinning his wrists above his head, he all but attacked the detective with his lips. John teased them apart, nipping at the corner of his mouth and kissing a straight line down his neck, only pausing to rip open a few shirt buttons with his teeth. He saw Sherlock stiffen in shock at the spontaneous assault and then he felt a sharp stab of pleasure as he saw Sherlock flush. The contrast of the red blood flowing to his alabaster cheeks was enough to make John growl._** Only he could make Sherlock feel this way.**_ He dropped Sherlock's wrists in favour of running his hands through those seductive he could smell was Sherlock, he could smell cold tea and blankets and rain and worn leather. He kissed Sherlock hungrily, relishing the feel of their lips sliding over each other.**_This was so right._** He pressed his body against his boyfriend's; he could feel Sherlock's heart beating against his own. As John bent down a bit and ran his tongue over Sherlock's slightly sweaty, and now bare, chest. He was rewarded by a deep groan that shuddered through both of them as Sherlock let it escape his lips._** He was the first person to be able to do this to Sherlock.**_ He rose a bit so that he could take some of the soft skin of Sherlock's neck into his mouth and left a bright crimson bruise there._** He would also be the last person to ever make Sherlock feel this way.**_

He paused. Something about that word made him stop in his tracks._ 'Last.'_ What was he thinking? He couldn't do this to Sherlock. He couldn't be the last. He was going to die. Sherlock needed to find someone else. John couldn't let Sherlock stay tethered to him. An enormous wave of guilt washed over him and settled in his gut.

John pulled away and took a few steps backward. Sherlock's head snapped up. His eyes were still glassy but when he saw John's bewildered look his gaze rapidly cleared. The worry and puzzlement was evident in his expression as he asked in a slightly breathy voice: "John, did... did I do something wrong?"

John sighed. This was going to be impossible. But he needed to do it for Sherlock. If Sherlock hated him it would be so much easier for the love of his life to find someone else.

"Sherlock," he kept his tone measured: "this isn't working."

Sherlock frowned: "Well I mean you haven't exactly had any previous problems with the door..."

John's heart broke with every word. He would miss that mischievous sparkle in those blue eyes; the unique way a smile could tug at the corners of that mouth.

"No. I mean us. Sherlock we can't do this." He couldn't tell Sherlock the real reason; he needed Sherlock to hate him. He was on the verge of saying that he wanted to get back together with Mary or that he had cheated when he saw the fear in Sherlock's eyes. It was like a million layers of arrogance and stubbornness had fallen away and all that was left now was vulnerability. There was no way he could do this. There was no way that Sherlock would believe any of these blatant lies. He could almost laugh at what a feeble attempt that would have been. He felt the guilt tugging again and he started to rapidly consider kinder options, but the next words came out in a flood before he could stop them.

"Sherlock, I can't let you keep loving me when I can die any second. And I know I could die any second even if I didn't have this aneurism, but this does increase the likelihood. No, don't argue, you know it's true. How could I live with myself if I let you love me?"

Sherlock looked at John with a faintly incredulous expression: "John!" He was half shouting: "Do you really think that you let me love you? It is my own damn choice if I want to love you! There is no one else on this godforsaken planet for me John. You're it. And you are going to spend the rest of your life with me even if I have to tie you up in chains and keep you here. I know you love me now, but do you have any idea how long I had to live in doubt? It nearly killed me, thinking that the only person I ever loved would never love me. I hated every moment of it. And now you wanted to plunge me back into that doubt? Why John? To make me hurt less when you die? Well you could throw every possible insult in my face. You can call me freak and it still wouldn't make me love you less. It would only make me love myself less. I count on you for every single thing, John, and you just wanted to rip that away? Everybody dies John, you shouldn't feel so special." He had ended this tidal wave of emotion no longer half-shouting. He was full on screaming at John.

John felt like this had just been fuel to his fire: "So what Sherlock, am I going to be your new destructive habit? Love John Watson until he dies. Is that it? You know what Sherlock, if you want to chain yourself to a dying man for your own masochistic purposes, why don't you just marry me?" He shouted back.

Sherlock barely thought about his response: "John, you are the only bloody non-destructive thing I've had in my entire miserable life so don't mind if I do then." He was still yelling hysterically.

John was about to reply when he suddenly understood every word that Sherlock had said in the last half hour. When the full meaning of these emotions, from the man that usually kept everything in check, hit him, all he could do was stare.

His look of awe was mirrored on his boyfriend's face. Only, that was wrong, wasn't it? Sherlock wasn't his boyfriend anymore...

_**To be continued...**_


	25. Chapter 24

_Hey guys..._

_If I wanted to thank every one of you who made me obscenely happy, I might need another chapter. Every one of your reviews nearly drove me to very, very happy tears. Thank you so much for the support guys, I was never even remotely expecting this. Thank you, form the bottom of my heart._

_Every review means the entire world to me. _

_I love you all for reading_

_As always, for the dear MorMor with a's, the one who led me into this brilliant and inescapable life of fanfic. I owe you a very large portion of my happiness, served with potatoes, of course ;)_

_I'm of to school again tomorrow, so I had to lose my Irene Adler nails and actually do everything I ignored until the last possible minute. But I will do my best to stay on schedule._

_This is "day 24: Making up after arguing."_

_All my love..._

* * *

**Chapter 24**

John stood there, for what was probably a good five minutes, while allowing the fact that Sherlock was now -most likely, it wasn't exactly the ideal circumstances- his fiancé.

Finally he seemed to find his voice, or at least something that resembled it: "Sherlock, did we just-" Sherlock coughed a little awkwardly: "Yes I think so..."

"So we're?"

"It would seem so."

"And you're fine with?"

"Yes, are you fine with?"

"No."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide: "John, I thought we were past this, I'm staying. Would you leave me if I was the one dying?"

John sighed. He wasn't doing a particularly exemplary job in articulating what he wanted to say. "No, of course not, Sherlock. I wasn't thinking very clearly when I said that, my emotions were running high and-"

"John, you just said it again no longer than ten seconds ago. I asked if you were fine and you said no. Are your emotions still running high?"

"Sherlock you are making this impossible. Of course my emotions are running high, because I'm not fine," John saw Sherlock opening his mouth to speak, but he had to finish this now: "No, Sherlock you annoying git, just let me finish will you? I'm not fine. I'm better than fine. I just got engaged to the love of my bloody life. There are no words in the English language to describe what I am feeling. So no, I am not _fine_. I am ecstatic, I am endlessly grateful, I am so happy I might just burst. I am anything but fine." A grin was rapidly spreading across his face. Married, they were going to get married.

Sherlock smiled so wide that it looked like invisible strings were pulling his entire face into a mass of happy lines. "John, Mmmmmmphgg-" was all he managed to get out before the doctor threw himself across the room, firmly planting their lips together.

Sherlock fell back with the force of John's embrace, hitting the floor with a hard thump. He simply groaned, he would probably be covered in bruises later, but right now all he felt was John. His entire body ached with longing. Closer. They needed to be closer. He rolled over, pinning John beneath him while shakily pulling the doctor's jumper over his head. Sherlock was already shirtless and they both shivered at the pleasure of tanned bare-skin against marble bare-skin.

John pulled Sherlock closer, tangling his hands in his fiancé's hair. He moaned against Sherlock's lips as he thought the word. He would never tire of hearing it. Fiancé. He loved what that word implied. I promise myself to you and only you.

John felt an oddly possessive surge as Sherlock gripped his hips, gently running his hands over John's thighs. He could feel the goosebumps forming on his skin.

Sherlock positioned his lips next to John's ear and whispered in a very attractive husky voice: "John, did you know the word planet originates from a Greek word meaning wanderer?"

John strained his ears to better catch the words. He wiped his confusion away, only Sherlock would want to give him a etymology lesson when he was on the verge of shagging him into complete oblivion.

He let out an annoyed huff of breath: "What?"

"Well I, it's just, that is how I always saw myself," He was still speaking in a slightly breathy and hesitant tone: "I used to sit outside and look at the stars. And I knew that somewhere out there was the planets, lonely wanderers of the skies. Always observing the lives of others, sometimes influencing them just a tiny bit with their light, but never truly being part of anything. I felt that way my entire life, until you, John. You were the first person to ever make me feel like a part of something. With you I wasn't just an observer. You made sure that I was included. And now you promised to be with me for the rest of your life, and that means I will never feel left out, I will never feel like an oddity, again. You don't know how much that means to me."

Both of them had tears rolling down their cheeks now. John pulled Sherlock down, letting him rest his head on John's chest as he stroked his hair and murmured soothing words.

"Yes Sherlock, of course you will never feel left out again, love. I never thought of you as an oddity. You are unique and extraordinary and beautiful. You're not a planet, you are the sun. My own personal sun and I couldn't live without your warmth. You are my light. My beacon, but you never set. You are always here in my heart, showing me the way."

John felt Sherlock's warm tears on his chest and barely registered that his own were wetting Sherlock's hair.

They were both drifting to sleep when John had another thought: "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"I'll take you star gazing sometime, okay love? Then you don't have to think of those nights when you were alone as sad memories anymore. Because you have someone now, you're not lonely now. I can't go back in time and make you feel less lonely then, but I can make sure that every sad memory you have is replaced by one of love."

Sherlock lifted his head just enough to look into John's eyes. The amazement was evident in his expression. He looked almost reverent, like he had found something breathtaking and was afraid it could disappear at any second.

He leaned down and softly brushed their lips together. It was barely a kiss, but it said everything that Sherlock needed it to: "John, I don't know if I could ever give you as much light as you give me. But I will try everyday for the rest of my life."

They drifted to sleep very soon after that, together on the floor. The room may have been dark, but their dreams were filled with light. And so were their lives.


	26. Chapter 25

_Hey guys, Sorry I'm late with this one again, school is exhausting._

_It is day twenty bloody five ! I cant believe it. This challenge feels like a part of me. Also, I have five prompts left to do everything I have planned. Errr, wow. I have it drafted, but still. _

_Anyhoo, notice all the figurative gaps in the chapter below. The next chapter will fill them. _

_To the girls at my school who are also fangirls. (and who I met very recently.) If you are reading this, HI!_

_Dedicated as always to the amazing MorMor with a's... All hale the mighty glow cloud ;)_

_And thank you to everyone for the amazing support._

_This is 'day 25: Gazing into each others eyes'_

* * *

**Chapter 25**

This was going to be a surprise. John was determined to surprise Sherlock Holmes. A feat anyone else might have thought impossible. John Watson, however, didn't do impossible.

This is why he had patiently waited for Sherlock to fall asleep- on top of a test tube full of some form of sticky purple liquid and a large collection of strange scribbles on note paper- that morning. When his fiancé was finally dead to the world, he quietly stole up to his old room and grabbed the blankets and picnic basket he had left there. He knew Sherlock wanted this. When Sherlock first brought it up, he had - in a stroke of brilliance- immediately and vehemently rejected the idea, all the while grinning broadly in his mind.

As he softly snuck down the stairs and met Mrs. Hudson at the landing, he couldn't quite suppress his excitement. Only part of it was for the actual gift, he found himself much more ecstatic at the thought that he might actually find it in his grasp to surprise his better half.

He had been spending the entire day working and receiving texts from Sherlock.

_**Where are you?–SH**_

_**I'm busy, I'll see you tonight-JW**_

_**Come back, I want you- SH**_

_**Can't you just hold on for a few more hours? –JW**_

_**No, we just got engaged. I am, as they say, hot for you- SH**_

_**I AM BUSY-JW**_

_**Where are you?-SH**_

At this point John gave up trying to reply; he had a lot to finish before tonight. ("No, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft can't stand there!")

He made his way back to 221B, late that afternoon, feeling oddly light and giddy. He felt like he could float away at any second. He was lost in thought; contemplating big romantic gestures. As a teenager he had often thought that he would be the type to stand underneath a girl's window with a bouquet of flowers to win her love. He had never found a girl he would want to do this for. He did, however, find one very deserving man.

The moment he opened the door Sherlock was on him. He delicately moved John to the kitchen and jumped onto a counter; he circled his long legs around John's waist and drew him closer. "I missed you," he growled. His warm breath tickled John's ear and it was nearly enough to drive his mind into a full blown storm of lust. He leaned forward and lightly stroked Sherlock back, lowering his hands at an excruciatingly slow pace.

_Lower John, just a bit lower. Oh God, John. You will be the death of me I swear it._

John slowly ran his tongue over the skin just above Sherlock's lips.

_Mmm, you like that Sherlock, you want me to go lower, maybe you should ask me then._

Sherlock ripped through the buttons on John's shirt.

_Oh well, I'll just buy him a new one. Lower, John!_

John pulled away with groan. The sky was darkening they needed to go before Sherlock tore through any more of his clothing. The detective could be quite... destructive.

"Sherlock, we need to go. I have a surprise," he was breathing a bit irregularly and he was trying very hard to pull the last dregs of focus from dusty corners of his mind.

Sherlock just arched an eyebrow and hopped of the counter with, what was in John's opinion, the most adorable little pout.

An hour later they were gazing into each other's eyes. (If it could be described as gazing, John was sure '**lost in'** was much more appropriate. The stars were shining brightly above them. John had never felt surer of any two words in his entire life when he breathed: "I do."


	27. Chapter 26

_Hi Guys, this chapter nearly killed me, so feedback would be very much appreciated. I'm still a bit unsure. It is very hard to do your OTP's wedding any form of justice. Please, please review ;) I love you all for reading._

_Okay let's see, firstly this chapter is linked with the last one and secondly, if you could imagine Sherlock's "deductions" about John in the way the always float on the screen as text during an episode, I would be very happy._

_Dedicated to the amazing MorMor with a's. You give me funny fanart, strange fanfic, sad movies and you somehow actually want to be my friend. There is no universe where I deserve you. _

_This is day 26: getting married !_

_ All my love..._

* * *

**Chapter 26**

If anyone were to ask Sherlock if he honestly didn't see John's wedding present coming, he would say that he didn't. He would say that loathe as he was to admit it, John Watson surprised him. And we all know that Sherlock is always honest.

If you asked Sherlock how John managed such a feat, he would tell you that it had all started a few weeks ago.

There are dozens of adjectives one can use to describe The World's Only Consulting Detective. If you knew him for a few minutes, you would say that he was bossy, rude, arrogant and stubborn.

If you knew him intimately for a longer period of time, like John did, you would describe him as bossy, rude, arrogant and stubborn. But you would add loyal, dedicated, dangerous and loving.

Which are really, as long as we are being honest, nicer ways of saying the same thing. Because if you are loyal to someone, that just means you are going to be too bossy to leave them, being rude takes dedication. Arrogance is simply an invite to danger. And loving someone is just being too stubborn to leave them.

In any case, being shy is not any of these lists. Except Sherlock's own, because the only word he could have used to describe the way he felt when he blurted out those words to John over the breakfast/experiment table one morning was definitely shyness.

Sherlock had caught himself seeing the world in his usual deductive style that morning. Only, his deductions were rather focused on one source. And most certainly not going to help him solve any murders. He was suddenly unable to stop himself from noticing John- not that he hadn't before, of course, but the engagement seemed to have worsened matters. As he stared at John with an expression that could only be described as love struck he saw his "deductions"...

**_Exact colour blue eyes of the bedroom of my childhood home._**

**_Could ruffle hair at this moment and only be prettier._**

**_Creases at eyes crinkle when smiling._**

**_Jumper would be soft against skin. My skin._**

He blinked hard, trying to fix his deductive skills, but it turns out one can't really "fix" being in love. And he was, so absolutely, completely, head over heels, I-would-kiss-you-behind-the-garden-gate-if-we-had-a-garden-gate, in love.

Maybe it was those questioning blue eyes that made him blurt out these next few lines. Or maybe it was his complete lack of impulse control. "John, Let's get married right now, Mycroft could conduct the ceremony. We'll text Greg, he could be best man for both of us and we could take Mrs. Hudson. Please John I want to be married to you right now," he had said this all in one breath and was rapidly working up a spectacular blush and a small flower of hope that his better half might say yes.

This is where John grinned and was about to agree wholeheartedly, when a certain stroke of brilliance hit him. So he immediately and vehemently rejected the idea. "No Sherlock. We can do this properly, with a ceremony and we could invite all our friends." He added the 'all', so as to especially annoy Sherlock.

It was also at that exact moment where John began to plan his tiny surprise wedding with Sherlock, in a beautiful field in the countryside, under the stars. John had promised Sherlock he would take him star gazing after all.

Skip ahead a few weeks which involved careful planning on John's part and absolutely no suspicion on Sherlock's part, whatsoever, and we arrive at the day of the wedding.

The day that John quietly sneaked off on while Sherlock was sleeping. And Sherlock insisted that he had found himself utterly dumbstruck at John disappearance. He says that, frankly, he was getting a bit worried when John finally came through the door. This is why the detective didn't even bother trying to deduce anything at that that moment. He needed to kiss the man in front of him, and he needed to do it now. He knew that they had time for a good snog, the location, of which he knew nothing, wasn't a long drive away in the car that Mycroft sent, not that he knew about any cars. He also dint have any reservations about tearing through the buttons on John's shirt, the doctor had tuxedo's waiting for them after all. Again, not that Sherlock had deduced this from the dry cleaners slip John had carelessly thrown away, He wouldn't do that.

If you asked John Watson he would tell you that even though a picture may be worth a thousand words, those of their wedding didn't day nearly enough. And then, if you were to question him, he would open their wedding album and show you several pictures.

The first one would be of them arriving, climbing out of a black sedan. They are both grinning and Sherlock is turned away from the camera ever so slightly.

If you were there however, you would see the absolute wonder and the rare surprise in those grey eyes as they took in the wedding arch with the fairy lights that somehow resembled the brightly shining stars above them. You would have seen the tenderness with which he looked at Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes and of course, his fiancé. His wonderful fiancé who had given him the small wedding ceremony he had always been too afraid to dream of. You would see the silent mirth that decorated the corners of his mouth as he saw the crime scene tape that John had used to create an aisle and the forensic photographer that had agreed to take the pictures.

The second photo would be of them standing facing each other, smiling tenderly, they are dressed in tuxes and Mycroft is standing just outside of the arch. He is looking a little forlorn with the couple in front of him and the sheer togetherness that they radiate. Greg and Molly are standing behind Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson behind John.

The third one would be almost the same, except for one extra figure, now also standing behind John; a petite girl with shoulder length auburn hair and John's blue eyes John is grinning while he holds Sherlock's hand,

If you were there for these two shots you would have seen Sherlock and John walking down the aisle together towards Mycroft and you would have seen them stop and look at each other.

Then you would have heard the reason John had tears in his eyes, because you would have heard Sherlock's wedding vows.

"John, well I would say that I don't have anything prepared, but I would be lying. And I am not in the habit of lying to you," you would see him say with a little wink: "I have written countless versions of these vows in my head since the moment I fell in love with you. I am not a writer; that has always been your role, you are the faithful blogger that finds my words. I can't define one single moment when I knew you were the one, because I see the ten thousand little threads that came together for us. My entire life I have felt like I see too much, I have tried to block it out and it left me with more than a few scars. John, you were the first person I met that made me wish I could see more. To say that you changed everything would be an understatement, because, John, you are the one. You were the one that stayed John, of all the people that ran the other way, I expected everybody to keep running. What I did not expect was one who didn't. John, today I vow to return that honour you did me. I vow to always return to you, because you gave me the first place in the world where I fit comfortably. In your arms, I feel that maybe everybody might be wrong. Maybe I'm not a freak, because for you to love me I must have done something right and somehow you convinced me that that something was just being myself. For that and a million other things, I love you John and I vow to continue doing so for the rest of my life. And because you invited my family to the wedding, I invited yours."

You would now see the tears running silently over John's cheek as Harry Watson tentatively approached and John embraced her. She shows him her two year sobriety chip and he kisses her as she goes to stand behind him.

The silent thank you in John's eyes will forever be imprinted on Sherlock's memories.

Then you would hear the reason for the tears in Sherlock's eyes. You would hear John's wedding vows.

"So I didn't manage to surprise you, this time," you would hear John say with a subtle wink: "Sherlock, as you said, I am the writer, which is why I know the exact moment I knew you were the one. Or at least the three exact moments: I didn't choose you; you grabbed my phone and asked Afghanistan or Iraq. That was the moment I knew I didn't want to let go of you. Then there was the look in your eyes at the pool with Moriarty. That is when I knew that I couldn't let go of you. And then there was the moment on our vacation when you saved me from that horse. That was the moment I knew that I didn't have to. Sherlock, I vow to you today, that I never will and that I will love through it all. I will love_ you._"

Then you would have seen that John and Sherlock were so utterly lost in each other that they barely heard enough of the ceremony to know when to whisper "I do."

And as they did, they knew that they had entire lifetime together to stay lost in each other, an entire lifetime in which the most definitely didn't want to be found. Because if you are lost in your home, are you really lost at all?


	28. Chapter 27

_Hello guys, this is day 27: On one of their birthdays. A bit of a coincidence, since it is my 17th birthday tomorrow. So if you would like to leave me a present to open tomorrow morning in the form of a review, I would be so very happy. (read: over the moon ecstatic)_

_Thank you for all the brilliant supports so far, it means a lot. Like seriously, you guys make my entire year._

_Dedicated to my brilliant MorMor with a's._

_I wanted to finish this entire story over the weekend, but I guess as a spectacular procrastinator, it would be just like me to use 40 days to write a 30 day challenge. _

_Anyhoo, all my love..._

* * *

**Chapter 27**

John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. In these two professions he had seen many people die. By seeing many people die, he had come to realise that people often died near their birthdays. It was one of those strange, inexplicable and ironic facts of life.

So, even though John had spent the entirety of his first month of marriage in a near comatose state of domestic bliss that no anxiety over any aneurism could penetrate, he was gradually becoming more stressed as his birthday drew nearer. On the morning in question, he awoke with a dull sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. He tried to convince himself that it was just silly superstition and failed spectacularly. Something else was wrong too, it took him a few moments to organise his foggy thoughts before he realised that Sherlock was missing. He stared sadly at the vacant pillow for a few seconds before he noticed the gleaming disc. He considered just staying there and ignoring whatever ludicrous thin his husband had thought up, but his curiosity won the battle. Frowning, he got up and carefully placed it in the tray of the DVD player in their depressingly empty apartment.

Sitting down in his usual chair, he saw a very familiar scene appear on the tiny screen. John would know this recording anywhere. It was the uncut version of the one Sherlock had made for his last birthday. Sherlock was excusing himself because he had a "thing". This was the disc that Lestrade had brought him when he thought that Sherlock was dead. He was just about to exit when the scene paused on Sherlock's wink and blurred into another recording. The surroundings were almost exactly the same, except for a slightly older and happier looking Sherlock.

John cranked up the volume as Sherlock started talking: "John, seeing as your last birthday didn't go... very well, I have, mostly consensually, decided to make it up to you with this one. You will need to decipher a series of very subtle clues within this DVD to find your present-" There was muffled speaking in the background as the camera was lowered and John was sure he could hear Lestrade saying something that signalled his complete ignorance at this part of Sherlock's plan. After a few seconds of not-quite-discernible arguing, the camera was raised again and Sherlock reappeared in the frame looking distinctly more ruffled.

"I have been told that the clues need to be simplified," he continued in a voice that said he did not think so even remotely: "and even though I have assured George here of your intelligence-" There was a noise in the background. "Right. Sorry. Even though I have assured _Greg_ here of your intelligence, he insists that I need to. So here goes, I suppose. Even though this is ridiculously easy. For the first part of you gift, you need to go to the place where we extinguished the beginnings of a fire. Then, to the place where it ironically took flame again. And finally, where we just let it all burn." Sherlock finished with a wink.

That was the end of the DVD. John sat there and stared blankly at the screen. All thoughts of dying were completely driven from his mind. This was the _simplified_ version?

Naturally his thoughts immediately jumped to the multiple times that Sherlock had managed to set 221B ablaze, but those were too obvious. He rewinded it and watched again. He was still more than a little confused. He decided that this warranted a nice cup of tea. If he hadn't decided to use one of those new cups he had stored in one of the other cabinets, he might have never figured it out. Because when he reached into the cabinet to retrieve the one of the cups, a wedding present from Harry, his hand grazed a candle. He actually just stopped and laughed at the mundane object, of course he knew what HSerlock had said. They had extinguished the fire when they refused the candle at Angelo's that first night. John dropped the cup and sprinted down the stairs, he was very glad he had taken a few moments to get dressed; there was no way he could have spared all that time to put on clothes with a revelation like this. He did not realise that if he were to explain this to anyone, he might have sounded vaguely familiar.

He arrived at the little restaurant, panting and grinning. When he entered, Angelo handed him a candle with a bow and a note: _**"If I could go back now, I would have let him put this on our table –SH"**_

John felt a very warm and fuzzy feeling spreading through him as he gazed at the note. Right, now the next part. He thought about the sentence as he leaned against a wall. Sherlock would have said everything with a purpose. Why did he say ironic, though? If it was an ironic place for a fire, there would have to be water... John smiled; this one had gradually crept up on him: the all-important pool.

John sprinted outside again and hailed a cab. The pool seemed a lot tamer in the daylight. He found a small bottle standing near the edge of the water. He approached it, a bit puzzled. It looked like there was... dirt in the jar. When he picked it up, he felt the amused smile on his lips. It was coffee,with another note scrawled in Sherlock's elegant writing: _**"If I could go back, I wouldn't have poisoned you in Baskerville. I wish I knew then what you have taught me now. This time I'll do better. -SH"**_

John was feeling so very loved at that moment, he had to blink exceptionally hard to clear the moisture from his vision.

The final one he knew already. It had to be the field where they had said their vows a month ago. That was where they had let the metaphorical fire of their relationship burn without restraint. And what better location for a wildfire than an abandoned field, after all?

He got into the cab, which had fortunately followed his instructions and waited. During the hour long drive John got very giddy. This may just be his best birthday ever. When he finally arrived, he saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the field, great cloak billowing out behind him.

John giggled a bit in anticipation as he slowly approached, jar of coffee and candle in each hand. He was about to delicately kiss his husband, when Sherlock spoke.

"And yet, maybe I wouldn't change a thing about the past, because it all led me here, to the place where I married the man I love."

And as Sherlock kissed John, he didn't realise that he had completely forgotten to die on his birthday. Maybe fate still had plans for them. Maybe with a past like they had, they deserved to enjoy the present and expect the future. Then again, maybe not, one can never really be sure, with all the little inexplicable twists and turns time takes to get you where you belong...


	29. Chapter 28

_Hey guys. I am so sorry for my week of absence. I was unbelievably busy. I am finishing this before tomorrow ends though. And because I know that a week in fanfiction is like a year anywhere else... Here is a previously on 'Our hearts' full pleasure':_

_So John and Sherlock got together and they had their ups and downs, like John being kidnapped by old army buddy Sebastian Moran who still hasn't been caught (And who left Sherlock a note with an injured John at the steps of 221B- __**"You took mine, I take yours. -SM"**__). Also, John was diagnosed with an inoperable brain aneurysm that didn't really cause him any symptoms that couldn't be treated, but it could burst at any moment and kill him. Our little danger addict kind of liked this concept though. They got married at a surprise wedding John pulled together and Sherlock most certainly didn't know about, even though he arranged for John's sister to be there. _

_That's about it. Some important stuff and my favourite fluff so far. _

_I had a horrible case of "Oh bloody stars I have no idea how to end this thing" until my brilliant friend gave me an idea when we should have been working in art class. THANK YOU MAGGIE._

_Dedicated to the brilliant MorMor with a's, who saves me when I'm a complete wreck at ungodly hours of the morning. _

_All my love ;) _

_And without further ado: Day 28 (or more like 46 by this time): Doing something ridiculous. _

* * *

**Chapter 28**

This was the third time. The third time that John had caught his husband staring at him with big, sad eyes.

This was the third time Sherlock had found John looking quizzically at him. He couldn't understand why John didn't just answer him.

John really wanted to know what Sherlock was saying. He knew that his detective did this sometimes. He knew this expression, when Sherlock was scared or feeling out of his depth with a certain topic of conversation he would simply stop talking aloud and continue to voice his opinions in his head. He didn't even realise that he was doing it. John had always found it endearing, but his curiosity was getting the better of him, dammit, they were married. Couldn't Sherlock just tell him in words and not a series of unreadable facial expressions?

They were both sitting in their chairs and John had been quietly reading the paper until he saw that Sherlock was just as quietly shouting at him. Right, this ends now.

"Just tell me, love?"

"..."

"Words, Sherlock."

"..."

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, sorry, I wasn't saying any of that out loud, was I?"

John had to smile at that, "No, you weren't. Do you want to try again?"

"I said that I wanted to tell you something. Something I've never told anyone. I need you to know this. John, when I was a child, my parents weren't around that much and Mycroft all but raised me. I was never very popular, and I never fully understood why, as you know I have trouble with knowing what people mean when they say things. Which is why, when a boy started being nice to me, I was fourteen at the time, I assumed that he liked me. So I asked him to come to the park with me, on a date. There was this vendor who sold candyfloss and I always wanted to go there with someone, everybody there always looked so happy and normal. I always wanted to be normal when I was a child. And I waited for the boy, Daniel, and he never showed up. The following Monday at school I found "fag" written on my locker. When I told Mycroft he said that he would go with me to the park, but then he got a promotion... When I was a bit older I asked a girl and she came with her friends and they laughed at me and left. So John, I guess, I just always wanted to eat candyfloss with someone... And you don't have to feel obliged..." Sherlock suddenly looked a bit ashamed of his outburst.

John could only stare. He felt an overwhelming amount of emotions swelling up inside him. He felt fury at all those people who couldn't see how extraordinary his Sherlock was. He felt disappointment and sadness, and horrible helplessness. He wished he could go back and make Sherlock feel accepted and loved. But most of all he felt an intense need to buy his husband candyfloss.

He had once told Sherlock that he couldn't take the hate from his past, but he could try his very best to replace that hate with love in the present. He could not think of a better opportunity than this.

"Which park was this, then?" He said with a small grin playing across the corners of his mouth.

* * *

An hour or so later they had found the small park near Sherlock's childhood home and they were both a little hot and sweaty. It was a longer walk than Sherlock had anticipated and the unseasonably warm sun had beaten down on them the entire way. The park was very pretty and utopian, but it was a Monday morning, so there was hardly anyone around. Maybe it was the heatstroke or maybe it was the sudden sense of public isolation, but John felt more than a little giddy. And he had an idea.

Sherlock looked around for the candyfloss vendor, but the park was completely abandoned. John could see the disappointed on his husband's flushed face. He found it completely ridiculous that Sherlock insisted on wearing his trademark scarf and coat, even in this heat, completely ridiculous and so damn sexy. The heat that flushed Sherlock's cheeks and made him pant ever so slightly. The way his curls mussed as he ruffled them more than usual in an attempt to cool himself down. The perspiration that gathered in a fine sheen on his forehead... It all reminded John of a certain version of Sherlock that he usually didn't see in public.

Yes. He had an idea.

While Sherlock was busy pouting at the absence of candyfloss John snuck up behind one of the most observant men in the entire world and in quick movement pulled the massive coat and cashmere scarf from those thin, slanted shoulders. And then he ran. He knew Sherlock could run much faster, but that was okay, he wasn't planning on outrunning him for very long. Just until he could reach that secluded and delightfully cool looking little pond.

After a moment to process the situation, Sherlock threw his full efforts into building up his considerable speed and chasing John. What he hadn't stopped to consider, but John had, was momentum; to be more specific, the momentum that prevented Sherlock from stopping on time. The momentum that sent Sherlock flying into John and knocked them both backwards into the pond.

Sherlock looked momentarily shocked and then he broke into a wide and honest grin.

John had landed on his back with armfuls of detective curled into him. He didn't need any time to adjust though. This was exactly what he had planned. He grabbed the first fistful of dark hair he found and gently positioned Sherlock's face over his own. Arching his neck he pulled Sherlock in for a deep kiss that tasted, inexplicably, of candyfloss.

Sherlock groaned into John and uttered a very clichéd sweet nothing that he would most definitely never regret. "John, I don't need candyfloss. You are sweet enough."

John was suddenly struck with a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was a writer and this felt oddly final; like an ending.

As if Sherlock could read his mind, which -let's be honest- he probably could, Sherlock softly kissed the corner of John's mouth and moved his lips against the soft skin he encountered there: "It won't ever be an ending John. Not with us. Not really. A true ending would mean that I stopped loving you and therefore there can't ever be one."

John blinked back a bit of moisture in his eyes: "You're wrong you know. If I stopped loving you it could be an ending too." His tone was teasing but he saw the panic flit through Sherlock's eyes nonetheless. He would never forgive the people from Sherlock's past that put the panic and fear of never being good enough in those perfect blue eyes. Those eyes were never meant to be tainted like that. So he added in a more serious tone: "Which, of course only means that our ending will be double the time forever takes."

Sherlock could have said then that that was completely and utterly illogical, because forever already indicates the never-ending and you can't double that which never ends. If fact, five years ago he certainly would have. But what he felt for the man beneath him was nothing if not illogical, so he simply quietly murmured: "Three times forever, because I love you more."

The resulting comical argument about whose love was more expansive continued long after the candyfloss vendor had set up shop on the opposite end of their hidden little spot. And didn't end until well after she'd left. Of course they didn't just _argue_. Extensive proof was given about the vastness of their love for each other. And occasionally the proof was just a bit too loud for a public park.


	30. Service anouncement from author

_Hello guys. _

_This is NOT an actual chapter. This is more of a service announcement. I am not done with this fic. There are still two prompts for which I have a wonderful plan. I am so sorry, but I am going through some personal stuff and a few friends are the only thing keeping me together right now. Phoenix ;) and MorMor with a's, gosh thank you. I will finish this as soon as I have the energy and time to write again. Thank you all for being such lovely supporters. I never expected to get all this amazing feedback. This will be a very brief hiatus, I promise._

_Thank you to all of you and please don't give up on me. _

_All my love. _


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